


Fuerza

by carnivorousBelvedere, notwest



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Bodyguard!Karkat, Daddy Kink, Director!Dave, Guns, M/M, Pining, Traveling, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 17:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17187452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnivorousBelvedere/pseuds/carnivorousBelvedere, https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwest/pseuds/notwest
Summary: A mistake in identity requires famed director Dave Strider to enter government protection across the sea. He’s assigned US Marshal Karkat Vantas to protect him until his name is cleared and the price on his head is eliminated.Whether or not they can stand each other in the meantime is another problem entirely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fuerza  
>  _noun_
> 
>  **Definition** :  
> (Spanish to English)  
> force  
> 1\. strength or energy as an attribute of physical action or movement
> 
> 2\. coercion or compulsion, especially with the use or threat of violence.
> 
> -
> 
> A roleplay about what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.

When Karkat receives his new assignment file, he laughs. Yeah, he's been deluding himself in thinking that his cases would get better, with all his years of service and that garbage. This was his first celebrity, seeing as most of them never needed this kind of help. But this was a little extreme.

It's not that he didn't feel the weight of it on his shoulders; if his charge's life was lost, specifically this one, he would be to blame by not only the government but the entire world. Karkat should probably be honored to be the one chosen to protect such a high-profile person.

He's being placed on indefinite protection services to none other than the ostentatious, utterly obnoxious director of terrible movies, Dave Strider. Fuck that guy. The thought of seeing his movie posters, his Oscar red carpet pictures makes his teeth grind. Solely because there isn't a single thing about that guy that didn't scream 'complete asshole'.

And now he's in charge of his fucking life.

Excellent. Great. Perfect.

Whatever. He's been on this gig for years now, protecting people as needed. For the most part he's been in charge of protecting people before they testified against other, far more dangerous persons. This was different.

There is a mob in New York, and the fuckface who leads it apparently was given divine direction informing him that Dave Strider is the leader of his enemy mob, located in California.

Who gives a flying fuck? They're on opposite sides of the country!

Karkat should just retire, he really should.

At this point, Dave is probably being held in an underground government building, 'for his safety', until Karkat can come to retrieve him so they can go lie low wherever they're told to. However the hell he's going to make Strider blend in anywhere is a largely unanswered question, and at the moment—knowing what he knows—it seems frankly impossible.

But he has a job to do and he'll do it. He starts to gather his materials and pack his bag; compete with his alternate identity, passports, currency, and handguns.

Dave Strider is waiting for him.

—

Dave Strider would tell you he loves his life. He would tell you he loves all 100,000 acres of his Beverly Hills mansion, that he loves the mobs of fans who coalesce in front of his gold plated gates every morning for the slightest chance they might get a glimpse of him strutting down the driveway in his boxer shorts to pick up the daily paper.

But of course, it's all for show. Gotta give the people what they crave. _Watch famous Hollywood director Dave Strider read the LA Times, he's just like you!_ Dave doesn't read the LA Times, but he can pretend he does, to give the people hope. Which means that he is practically achieving sainthood, here.

Image is crucial. There are certain things he has to do to keep the Strider brand alive. Shades. Poker face. Million dollar red suit. Perfect hair. And of course, the trademark swag. It all came with the territory.

What did not come with the territory were the four helicopters that noisily descend on his house one unassuming Saturday afternoon. He’s half asleep in living room number five when he hears the rush of the choppers. _Hey,_ he thinks groggily, _you're too early. The DStri helipad isn't being installed for another four months._

Except, this wasn't the custom painted helicopter and on-call pilot he'd drunkenly hired a couple of nights ago. His heart rate spikes as he hears doors slamming and glass shattering. Fuck, fuck.

Before Dave can so much as stand up, a SWAT team storms into the room, takes him by both arms, and escorts him into one of the helicopters, which then lifts into the sky.

Every single one of his questions and protests go unanswered by the faceless black masks. They lift him like he’s twenty three glued together bags of pork rinds. Kind of embarrassing, if it wasn't so fucking batshit crazy. And maybe a little terrifying.

All four helicopters take off at once. Even when they’re in the air, no one answers his myriad questions and complaints about what the fuck is going on. He can’t see anything outside the mansion, or think of any threats they would be responding to. The few officers that are in his ride continue to act like the fucking British Guard. It’s only after the third time he threatens to throw himself out the open side of the helicopter that finally one of them turns around. “There has been security threat. We are in the process of relocating you for your own safety, Mr. Strider."

Dave doesn't know what to make of that. Maybe this was all some absurdly elaborate revival of MTV Punk'd.

When they land, a little less than an hour later, he is once again manhandled into some plain looking government building, and sat down in some dingy basement room where he is simply told to wait. His fingers itch for his cell phone, but it had been taken pretty much immediately.

All Dave has is what he'd been wearing when he was kidnapped by the government without so much as a courtesy call, which is a pair of white boxers, a long, red, plush robe and his favorite tube socks. He'd asked for a bulletproof vest in the helicopter a couple of times, but no dice.

Well. This was something interesting in his life, at least. He straddles the flimsy office chair that's set in the room, leaning on the desk, and waiting.

—

"Was this really all necessary?" Karkat asks his boss when he arrives to the hideaway. She immediately hands him a thick file.

"Unfortunately, we believe so," she responds as walks him downstairs for the mutual debriefing. "We intend to place a decoy in meantime to draw out Rossier's men."

"It's not going to work, this is ridiculous. No one needs this kind of production. You just plucked him out of his house?"

His boss gives him an unhappy look.

"Listen, I get it. It's not my place to ask questions. But the public is going to have them as much as I do."

"The public. Doesn't. Know."

"There is a ten million dollar price on this guy's head, and you think the public isn't going to know? Not to mention he's one of the top-grossing directors in the world, Forbes 30 under 30... You have got to be fucking kidding me," he scoffs. He sighs under the underground fluorescent lighting as they hustle through nondescript, metal-paneled hallways. "Why doesn't little Susie Q who saw one of the Harlowe murders get the welcome party? Why is it—"

"Our job is to _save lives,_ " she reminds him sternly. Her heels clack as they move. "High-profile or not, that's what we do."

"Yeah, keep deluding yourselves," Karkat grumbles in frustration. Honestly, he’s mad about it. Why does this asshole get all the protection? The dude’s probably never worked a real day in his life. Karkat sincerely doubts he genuinely deserves these extreme measures.

"You're the best we've got, you've never lost a witness. Or target, in this case," she tries again.

"I've been doing this for _fifteen years,_ of course I'm best you've got."

"Just look through your file, please? This job is practically a vacation, you should be thankful. No suburb skulking gig."

"Just because I'm in another country doesn't mean his fucking bounty goes away!" he counters, but starts to flip through it, taking in information about the two warring mobs and his assignment. Apparently they are already arranged for a little getaway in the small fishing village of Genoa, Italy. The photos look like they were ripped from a travel magazine. Lovely.

It should be rather easy to stay out of sight there, but he's never handled someone who was worth ten million, dead or alive. There are going to be people looking for him, very bad people. And when they find out he's gone, those people will be searching high and low. Soon enough he's standing outside of the debriefing door. "Let's get this shit over with," he mutters and shoves it open with his boss in tow.

"Sorry not sorry for the delay Mr. Strider," he says and slaps the file on the table, coming to sit across from the man. "But you're welcome we just saved your life, oh what the—" He finally looks up to see that Strider is wearing a literal fuzzy bathrobe, and doesn’t appear to be wearing a shirt under. Wow. He’s got his work cut out for him, that’s for sure.

He looks at his boss. “How the hell did they mistake this guy for the DiAngelo mob leader?

—

Dave sits waiting. And waiting.

He’s not even sure who or what he’s waiting for. With a display like that, maybe the President? Or dare he think it, the big man Obama himself.

The seconds tick by.

Fine, fine, he’d even take Michelle.

He sits up when the door finally opens and a guy storms in, marches up to him, sits down, and slams a folder on the desk. Dave is a little mesmerized for a second before he catches himself because wow, that sure is a face. This guy looks like he wants to bite the heads off several snakes. His eyebrows are like furry, black peninsulas on his face.

“Sorry, CIA dude, if I woulda known I was about to be taken faster than Liam Neeson could leave a threatening voicemail regarding the situation, I would have grabbed my Armani, custom embroidered cumberbund on the way out."

Dave noticed the woman who walked into the room too, but right now this guy was demanding all of his attention. His life? DiAngelo _what_? There's no way this wasn't an enormous joke.

“No need for the elaborate set up man," Dave continues. "If you wanted an interview, you could have just asked.”

Because his shades were also left behind in the mansion, Dave makes sure to punctuate his sentence with a hearty wink.

—

Karkat snorts. Yeah, this guy was turning out to be exactly what he expected so far. “Un-fucking-fortunately, it’s neither of those. Some asshole in New York seems to think you’re the leader of a mob based out here in LA. Now I’m not aware what shit in your Google search history tipped him off, but it did. It’s not my business if you’ve been trying to purchase underground Russian brides—” Karkat starts, but is cut off by his boss clearing her throat loudly in the corner and stepping forward.

“What Marshal Vantas is trying to say is that there is has been a threat on your life, and we have graciously extended you federal protection while the hunt is about.” She steps towards the table, flips it open and finds the piece of paper she’s looking for before sliding it across the table at Dave. “We received word last night of a black market hit on your head, dead or alive, valued at ten million dollars. We knew we had to act fast, for the purposes of protecting you and potentially benefiting the public by drawing out these unsavory groups. If it wasn’t clear, we a joint commission of the FBI and US Marshals, and this is your protection debriefing. I do sincerely apologize for the uh, hm, untimely retrieval you endured. You can ask us any questions now as you so please. Otherwise we can continue with your debriefing, _per Marshal Vantas’ cooperation_ ,” she intones, a clear ‘please behave’.

Karkat has to hold back a snicker. ‘If it wasn’t clear’? Of course it wasn’t clear, this celebrity probably couldn’t tell the difference between two right shoes. And whatever, he doesn’t have to like the guy, or even be nice to him.

He just has to keep him alive.

—

Dave smirks at this dude getting openly blasted by his obvious superior. He was definitely kind of a tool, but like, really angry too. An angry tool. Like a warhammer.

Focus. He looks at the document on the table. Holy shit, that looks official. The world around him settles in a little bit more.

Dave thinks back, but he can’t recall anything in his life that ever even hinted at this. Fuck, he doesn't even know anything about the LA mob. Or _any_ mobs. He tries to think about what he knows from The Sopranos and then remembers he never watched The Sopranos. Shit.

What he did know was that having a hit on your head was pretty universally bad news. Like, Grim Reaper levels of bad. Dave's brain was like a pinball machine—his thoughts were bouncing anywhere from, _Holy shit, am I in actual danger here_ to, _When did I fall asleep and get dropped ass backwards into the Twilight Zone?_ and everywhere the fuck in between.

What he does know, at least, is that there are two people staring at him, so he opens his mouth and lets words fall out.

“Ten million dollars, is that all I’m worth? Check it—I could pay someone twenty million not to kill me. Or maybe you ran the calculations wrong, or there was a fluke in facial recognition. Oh, I know. You walked in on this guy," he extends his arm straight, fingers almost poking the guy's face, "Pulling his man handle to my 60 Minutes interview and then he had to make up the entire black market hit story to throw you off his pervy trail."

The eyebrows raise dangerously, but Dave rambles on, louder. “Shit, maybe this is like, a Face/Off thing and that mob dude is wearing my face as a mask somewhere and now I have his.” He touches a hand to each cheek and exhales. “Nah, still me. Hey, I’d bet a baby’s ass you’ve never touched anything so smooth. I had L'Occitane make a special aloe vera formulation custom just for my face. Go ahead,” Dave says, leaning in towards him jaw first, “Take ‘er for a run.”

—

Karkat has been in this game for a long time. He’s seen shit—a lot of shit—but in his memory he cannot remember wanting to so suddenly connect his fist with someone’s face before.

Succinctly put, it requires all his self control and then some not to give in to that urge.

Strider leans in toward him and Karkat clenches the table where he sits, breathing in and out of his nose to calm himself but not giving away any ground. He’s had ornery clients before, but this was something else.

Karkat knows he is too experienced to let this asshole get under his skin.

On the other hand, well, the government just doesn’t pay him enough to not have his way with things now and again.

He does not break eye contact with Strider as he says it, his face settled into his consistent impassive half-frown and eyebrows drawn down to “intimidation” level.

“You know what? Maybe that guy just decided he’d be doing the world a favor by getting rid of your pampered ass and the movies it's shit out and rolled across the red carpet so everyone has to step in it. And sorry, Botox and a ten-step Korean skincare routine wouldn’t help that mug. Oh I almost forgot, it’s ‘lox-ee-tahn’, not ‘leh-oxi-tani’, you fucking idiot.” He leans forward toward Dave, folding his fingers together in his lap. “Maybe you’ll change your tune when you realize your life is literally in my hands.”

His boss senses the charged electric current filling the air and raps on the table, hoping to distract the two from their exchange. “I think it would be in our best interest to continue with this debriefing,” she says, an edge of exasperation in her voice.

Karkat continues to maintain his eye contact with the director, unwilling to budge.

—

Ha. This guy, Vantas, was pissed. He was trying not to show it, but Dave had more than enough experience spouting bullshit at people who were smart enough to realize that he could get away with it.

Of course he could. He’d come to expect it. People were too easy, and impossible at the same time.

There was also a distinct part of his brain that definitely lit up for a second when Vantas leaned in and growled “L'Occitane” two inches away from Dave's face in a perfect french accent.

"Yeah, okay," Dave agrees. Vantas is staring him down underneath those eyebrows. He holds the eye contact, his face giving away a miniscule grin.

Dave stands up, turning the chair around so he can lie back in it and slam his feet up on the table in front of Vantas as he continues, "I mean, I'm really a one note kind of guy. But sure let's bring on the debrief. Or actually, can I get a few minutes to calm down? Because after that loving roast I have to make a confession." He puts his hands to his chest and raises his eyebrows. "My nips are a little hard."

—

Strider says more words and at first they don’t register. Karkat just stares at him, his face actually slackening out as he comprehends, watching Dave rearrange himself.

This little battle was he was having with Strider was just lost.

_No._

Absolutely not. Karkat is not doing this job.

He knows deep down that he’s just trying to get a rise out of him, but everyone has a breaking point, and time has made him anything but patient.

He moves to stand up. “Fuck this, I am not going to let this vapid moron be the reason I lose a client for the first time!” He bangs his fist on the table as he says it. His boss reaches out a hand to his shoulder and attempts to shove him back into his seat.

Karkat, obviously, does not budge. Her attempts to move him physically might as well be like a fly moving a brick wall.

Karkat continues. “No, hell no, I’m not taking this job, _find somebody else_ , this guy is not worth my stupid twenty-plus years of service to this country, and you fucking know it,” he growls.

Her face is red, a bit, and he’s glad to see that she at least is a little scandalized.

“Mr.—Mr. Strider,” she stumbles.

“Oh god, none of that fucking bullshit please, this little shit is just begging to be offed liked he’s got a thing for it. Can I just save the commission the trouble, you’d have an extra ten million of spending money.”

She glares at him. He seethes, and slips out of the chair towards the door, but she stands in front of it to block him.

He’s cornered.

Fuck this. Fuck it all. Fuck everything.

He goes back to the table and pulls out another piece of paper from the file, slamming it down instead of gently sliding it over in the collected manner his boss had done earlier.

“While you’re calming down, how about you consider a few weeks in Italy. If there’s any chance, any chance at all, you think you could manage to not _do this_ while we’re there, we might actually have a chance at keeping you alive.”

—

Twenty plus years… how the fuck _old_ is this guy? Dave takes his feet off the table but keeps his easy lounge, using the time to casually scope out Vantas' sculpted jaw, his low profile and muscled build. All things considered, aging apparently wasn't doing him _any_ wrong. He leans into it.

Dave gestures down at himself. "This is me, dude. You're looking at it, one hundred percent, raw, unfiltered, fair trade certified Dave Strider. Complete with testimonials from a million orgasming fans that _this_ is pretty damn good."

He turns his eyes up to Vantas. "So if you still don't wanna shack up with me in some villa off the shore of Tuscany, daddio, could you at least like, bring me a new and improved model from the back room?"

—

_Great,_ Karkat thinks as Dave speaks. He’ll be dead in a week at this rate.

But then he says _that._

Karkat reacts like he’s been slapped. He’s usually in decent control of his reactions and emotions, he’d at least like to think, save for a few well deserved outbursts now and then.

He is very unprepared for the hot flash of something like anger that hits him.

Daddio?

_New and improved model?_

What in the fucking world was he getting himself into?

His boss lets out a very unprofessional, tittering laugh.

His face contorts into a completely uncontrollable scowl and he glares at her. Her mouth shuts but when he turns away back to Dave she is still trying to snuff out the laughter.

“Unfortunately for me, I’m legally required to ‘want’ to. Unfortunately for you, _this is all you get._ Is that going to be a fucking problem?”

He has the vague sense that he was insulted, but also, something else? This guy just spouts so much infuriating nonsense he can’t even tell. He just doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to tolerate it, he’s never gone from zero to sixty ‘I will wring your neck, a skill I actually have and have used’ so fast.

—

Watching Vantas' face in action is some of the most entertaining shit Dave has seen in months. Holy shit, out of everything, _daddio_ is what got to him? Dave wasn't even thinking when that popped out of his mouth. Regardless, he takes a mental note.

The boss is still laughing while Vantas snarls. Dave lifts one side of his mouth and winks at her. Now that's what he's used to. The charm, the glib—it comes as easily to Dave as scratching his own ass.

This guy was another story. Dave can't ignore the tug, the soft alert going off in his brain signaling him that he's something different. That it’s probably best to keep him around.

He looks back to the agent and sits forward, clasping his hands together on the top of the table. "Not a problem here, Mister Vantas, sir. Let's go, I'm ready to make teacher proud—y'know, get that shiny gold star pressed on my chest and make all the other kids so jealous they start accusing me of kissing ass, which I obviously totally am because the teacher is actually hot as hell and I just can't stay away from those extra credit after school tutoring sessions. You know?"

—

Karkat finally sits back down and lets his head fall into his hands.

He didn’t even bother to comprehend whatever just came out of Dave’s mouth, it was probably for the best that he began to tune out the incessant verbal mess he seemed capable of producing.

_Teacher is hot as hell._

Yeah, no.

He sighs heavily while his boss laughs again. People in this field shouldn’t be so easily charmed. He sighs and looks back up at Dave.

His boss leans over the table, extending a hand out to Dave. “I suppose we should officially introduce ourselves, I’m Annette DiLaurentis and this,” she claps a hand on Karkat’s shoulder, “Is our distinguished Navy Seal turned Marshal, Karkat Vantas. I can guarantee you’ll be in good hands.”

Karkat only crosses his arms, glaring to see if Strider will actually take the hand in the only civilized action he will have done thus far.

—

He’s been assigned a _distinguished_ Navy Seal turned US Marshal who has apparently never lost a client before. The information pokes at Dave's chest in a weird place that he is in no way ready to unpack.

His fingers twitch against each other and he stands up, really wishing he had his shades on. Dave takes the woman’s hand with both of his, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Annette," he drawls, in an exaggerated Texan accent.

He turns to Vantas. Karkat? Nah, Vantas. “I’m Dave Elizabeth Strider, hella broke college student turned creator slash director of the top three highest grossing films of all time, net worth of approximately 900 million dollars and winner of the 2016 Nobel Peace Prize.” He holds out his fist for a solid bump.

—

Karkat scoffs as he takes Annette’s hand. Usually she wouldn’t stand for being called her first name in a professional setting, but something tells Karkat that she’s just indulging Dave for the sake of annoying him.

When Dave holds out his fist, Karkat knows he must rise to the occasion. It’s not often an opportunity presents itself in such a fashion.

“That detail wasn’t in my files, but pleasure to make your acquaintance…” He lets his fist fly out and smash into Dave’s with all the coiled tension sitting in his muscles. _With my fist,_ he thinks, very cheesily, but doesn’t say aloud. “Mr. Strider.”

900 _million_ dollars? Holy hell that’s a lot of money. He can’t even begin to wrap his head around it. That is a preposterous amount of dollars. No one should have that money, especially not the twenty-five year old sitting in front of him.

—

Dave pulls back his fist, working hard to resist cradling it to his chest. Holy shit, he’s pretty sure Vantas just fractured all the bones in his hand.

_Hot._

His brain tries to generate an image of Vantas looking at his file. Probably all alone at home, over a steak dinner and a glass of wine. Yeah, he definitely seemed like the pent up, workaholic type.

_Mr. Strider._ Dave likes the way it sounds in Vantas' voice. It sounds kind of like someone throwing a handful of rocks down a garbage disposal. But sexier.

“Let’s do it,” Dave says, bringing his sore hand up to his forehead in a salute. “Let’s keep me alive.”


	2. Chapter 2

Karkat watches him try not to show any pain, and is actually impressed. He hit him pretty hard. He’d certainly felt some of the tension Strider’s presence had induced in him leave with his fist, a definitive relief. 

_Let’s keep me alive_. 

That’s the idea. He wants to laugh at the little mock salute, but it’s surprisingly hopeful. His first sign of compliance. 

He’d noticed Strider’s eyes on him, shaping him up. For the job at least, he presumed. He supposed that Strider liked what he saw in him. It didn’t make them any better a match, and he was dreading the fifteen hour flight they were about to take together. 

He looks at his boss and looks back at Dave, exhaling resolutely. Time to get the hell out of here. 

Over the next half hour they run through what to expect over the next few days to weeks, depending on how long this bounty is out. They already have a small home on the oceanside of Genoa, pre-furnished and hidden in the maze of the residences looming over the pristine water’s edge. 

If all went well, and Karkat surely hoped it would, they would stay there for the remainder of these issues and then head right back home when it was over. 

The possibility of people in this small city looking for Dave were very slim, but Karkat didn’t want to take his chances. 

Dave is given some spare clean plainclothes for the flight. They’ll be receiving a wire transfer when they get to Italy and Dave will be free to purchase more clothing. Karkat can already foresee the inevitable headbutting when he doesn’t let him buy anything with an absurd price tag. He’s probably not used to going without his silken pajamas but he’ll have to deal. 

But all that he doesn’t have to worry about yet. What he has to worry about is the flight. They will have to blend in through the whole process, and though they will have a guiding hand and cover identities while passing through, LA is going to be a hotbed of people looking for Dave. They are flying out of a smaller airport, and connecting in London (a whole ten hours) and then heading down to Italy and making their way over to the small city. 

He’ll be strapped for it all, but that doesn’t make him any less anxious. 

Off the top of his head, Strider doesn’t have a single thing to his name, as his phone was removed from the premises for his safety. He’s going to be bored, and that goes hand in hand with very annoying. 

The real shame is that he didn’t get to pick Dave’s cover identity name, but anything he thought of would have been too ostentatious anyways. 

All they’ve got are their lightly packed bags and cover identities when they arrive at the airport. They’d arrived separately, thankfully saving Karkat from enduring any more minutes alongside the director. That reprieve is over now. 

Karkat drops his bag on the floor at the automatic ticket check-in machine. 

Time for things to go as un-smoothly as possible. 

“Let me guess, you’re not used to _not_ having inflight entertainment, are you?” He takes his passport out of his chest pocket in his jacket and scans it as he speaks. 

-

Forcing himself to sit through the entire debrief without making any comments is hard, but Dave makes do. Mostly by openly staring at Vantas. 

He's oddly aware that nothing about the situation is really sinking in. It's like he's in some jacked headspace where these events are both really happening and part of an absurd fantasy dream sequence. Mostly he feels like he's still expecting to wake up any second, but oddly, wishing that he won't. 

He and Vantas are led different ways after that. Dave receives a passport for his cover identity--Blake Arlington, _Kohl's_ store manager and weekend salsa enthusiast--and some real clothes so they can make their way to the airport. Apparently, his knee length cherry red robe is not considered incognito. He gratefully puts them on, dutifully ignoring the fact that they are miles away from acceptable the Strider brand guidelines. They also give him a small travel pack, and he puts the robe in there. Still no phone. Still no shades, either. He'll have to buy a pair as soon as they wire his money over.

The car ride is pretty boring, and there's a partition between Dave and the driver, so he can't even make requests. It means he's stuck with only his thoughts, also known as the things he works hard to drown out everyday. He thinks about Vantas, the ex-Navy Seal who's been assigned to protect him, like some kind of buff, fatherly guardian angel. Only the best of the best for Dave Strider. He wonders what it would be like to do something worthwhile in his life. 

He spends the rest of his time in the car treading the waters of his own mind, and by the end of the ride, the intensity of his foot tapping could rival the cast of _Stomp._ He leaps out of the car, quickly spotting Vantas at the small check in area and walking over. As Dave approaches him he gets a full view of what Vantas is packing from behind, and one helpless thought begins ricocheting wildly off the sides of his brain-- _That is a nice ass._

Vantas' ass is perfectly, angelically sculpted, round as an apple and jutting out lavishly, framed by tight pants that are doing him every fucking favor.

Holy shit. Dave could write songs about that ass. He wants to study it like a dedicated student, sit in that ass's lecture hall and listen to it speak for days on end, volunteer for every hands on demonstration. 

He has to drag his eyes away when he realizes he's gotten close enough that the owner of said ass is asking him about inflight entertainment. He pulls out his passport and scans it with the machine next to Vantas', punching in the fake details so it can print the ticket.

"Nah," Dave responds. "I usually just fall asleep on flights anyway. Long time no see, Mr. Vantas, sir. Check the look." He turns in a slow circle. "I'm like the out of wedlock shame child of beige and gray. Sexy, am I right?"

-

Karkat looks sidelong at Dave, looking up and down his body and nodding. He’s relieved that Dave, for once, does not seem to stand out in the crowd. 

He looks like a regular guy with a rather nice face, and the fact that he’s lacking his sunglasses is only a bonus, especially now. Karkat knows he should feel lucky that he got to see the famous Dave Strider without his signature shades on, but he only considers it through the lens that it will make slipping into Europe easier. 

Without his shades he is certainly a bit more expressive, maybe, and on second thought Karkat prefers him with the shades. Just because the fact that he noticed that is unnerving. 

“The four letter word starting with an S that I’m looking for is ‘safe’, but whatever floats your flamboyant-ass boat I guess,” he mutters lowly. “Also, it’s James Samuels to you, uh, Mr. Arlington I see.” 

His ticket prints out and he reshoulders his bag, nodding in the opposite direction from where the rest of the public goes through security. “When you’ve got your ticket, meet me at that door over there, okay?” They’ll need to go through a special, private area so he won’t have to publicly reveal the compact pistol holstered safely to his side under his jacket. Everything about this must be subtle, and he tries to relax his shoulders to not show just how nervous he is to get through the process already as he turns and walks over there. 

-

It's only after Vantas walks away that Dave really becomes aware that he doesn't have his shades on. 

It's ironic, but he's not used to people _not_ staring at him. The airport isn't even packed at all, but it's a weird feeling to have everyone's eyes just gliding over him as they pass by. 

And on the occasion that someone does catch his eye, he almost feels more seen than he has when there were dozens of paparazzi swarming him like ants to a chicken bone on a hot July sidewalk. 

It's a little disorienting, and a hell of a lot uncomfortable.

As soon as the ticket prints he practically sprints after Vantas, and that choice ass, the rest of the way to the special security clearance door. 

-

Karkat smirks as Strider hurried to meet up with him, glancing around at people to make sure it’s quiet before scanning them in with the card he was given for the occasion. 

A very bored employee next to a basic looking body scanner is reading a book and looks up at him. 

Karkat goes ahead and puts his bag down on the scanner belt. He then fishes his proper US identification badge out of his pocket and presents it. The person on duty looks it over while Karkat then reaches in and unhooks the gun surreptitiously holstered up against his side and holds it out for them to examine. 

No words need to be said, they aren’t supposed to ask questions. 

-

It never occured to Dave to deeply question why they were bothering to get extra special security clearance. He was fine with it, as long as there were no surprise cavity searches on the way. 

And then he's standing behind Vantas at the security scanner when he sees him slip an actual gun out from under his jacket, and his perception of reality flips, just a little. 

Which is stupid. Because of course Vantas has a gun. It's a real gun for shooting real people who are presumably really looking for Dave. 

But Dave's never held a gun before. The thought makes him feel small. He likes it. 

Another part of his brain becomes extremely busy reranking Vantas' hotness level at least 30 tiers higher. That ass, and a gun? Talk about lethal forces. If every cop looked like Vantas, there would be a completely different definition of doing _hard time_.

-

Karkat gets the gun back to its rightful place as fast as possible. He glances at Strider as he does, noticing his expression. He does see his eyes zero in on the weapon and sighs internally. But Strider doesn’t say anything, so he’s left wondering what exactly his thoughts are. 

He’s not going to ask and it doesn’t matter. 

They get through security and slip into the main terminal through a side door down a long, empty hallway.

“Are you hungry?” He asks when they’re finally on the other side. His first meal with his most ornery charge to date. He’s not looking forward to it, but he’s got the cash for the time being and the guy certainly hasn’t eaten in a while. Karkat isn’t an asshole.

Besides, they should probably get used to sharing meals together anyways, and it’ll give Karkat an opportunity to scope out people filtering through. 

-

At Vantas’ question Dave realizes it’s been a while since he’s eaten. 

He’s not even particularly hungry. But It's a weird, and pretty bullshit feeling, realizing that he has to fully rely on Vantas for even the most basic of needs. 

Dave stops mid stride, raising his eyebrows. “Ooh mister Vantas. Are you asking me on a date? At an airport? How romantic.”

-

_Ugh_. Karkat knows that it’s all in jest. But he doesn’t know how the guy can make such strange jokes at a time like this. He’s seen weird coping mechanisms from people in tight situations before, but no one to date has ever hit on him, or implied any level of _flirting_. He thinks the word with disdain. No one especially has ever talked to him like this with the purpose of intentionally aggravating him. 

_How romantic._

Karkat doesn’t know the first thing about romance besides all the romcoms he secretly watches whenever he gets the chance. Movies are the one thing that make him feel normal, a bit more human. He’s sure he’d never hear the end of it if anyone found out, so he never talks about it, but he knows he’s seen more than a few unrealistic romances play out on the screen. 

And they’re unrealistic for him because he just knows he’ll never experience it. 

No one ever stays, and everyone always leaves. 

Those thoughts are a slippery slope to painful memories, so he shakes himself out of it. 

“Is your bar for romance that low? Wait until we get to Italy. Until then, my job is to keep you alive even if that means shoving food down your gaping trap. So tell me what the fuck you want to eat before we get on that flight in….” He checks his watch. “Forty-five minutes.”

-

Dave skips back to Vantas' side, since he didn't completely stop walking to engage him. "So, you're like a super stacked dude nanny. I can dig it."

He _almost_ stretches an arm around Vantas' shoulder, but reels himself back at the last second. It's too close to something he wants right now. 

"We could get some greasy, MSG loaded noodles," he says, pointing over at the Panda Express they're encroaching on. "Maybe I can score a fortune cookie that will predict whether or not I'll be alive next month."

Oof. Probably too real. Still, he can't take it back, so he leans into it, smirking and miming shooting himself in the head with a finger gun.

-

Karkat scoffs at _super stacked dude nanny_. It’s definitely accurate, he is playing babysitter to the world’s most spoiled adult child. 

But then Karkat looks at him as he says _that line_. The gun motion he makes invokes something with him, something indignant that wants to snap back. He would rather have his eyes stabbed out than see his client die. 

But he’s starting to see a pattern here. 

The morbid humor is a defense mechanism. It’s the only explanation. And if it’s a defense mechanism, what does that mean for every other joke he makes? 

Is Strider just like that, or…..

Karkat doesn’t feel like expending the brain power to begin sorting through what that could possibly mean about Dave Strider. 

He pauses and looks at Dave, crossing his arms. He leans down closer to his ear and in a lowered voice he says, “Mr. Arlington, there’s one thing you should know by now, and it’s this: Whether or not I can stand you, I will protect you, and I will die trying if I must.” He looks back up to the store front. “Now I’ll eat Panda, but only if you’re sure you want to be hungry again in exactly one hour.” 

-

Given Vantas’ explosive attitude toward him earlier, Dave was kind of expecting a similar blowout at his jokes. The fact that Vantas just shrugged off Dave's words sparks a slight discomfort in his chest he can't explain, followed by the hint of warmth in the tips of his ears when Vantas leans in toward him. 

_I will protect you, and I will die trying if I must._

It’s probably the most demonstrably caring thing anyone’s ever said to him. How fucked is that. 

He keeps his eyes averted, lamenting his lack of shades once again, as something prickly swells in his throat. It’s dumb as hell and he needs to force that shit into submission before it spirals out of control. 

_It’s literally his job,_ he chants to himself, like some mantra for the pathetically needy. _Don’t attach meaning that’s not there._

"You're right," he says. "Not to mention the several hours worth of hot squats on the porcelain pot." He points over to a duty free store with a big display of whiskey. “Now that’s a meal."

-

Karkat actually laughs a little at that. So maybe Strider does have a sense of humor that isn’t fully based around pissing someone off. 

But still, he doesn’t have the full attention to put towards that because he’s busy with assessing everyone in the general area that could be suspectful. Those who practice deception know how to find others that are too deceptive. He glances over the top of Dave’s head, glancing over at the people loitering near a couple of gates. 

“Yeah, not on my watch,” he responds to Dave. If this is a sign of poor drinking habits, he’s really got his work cut out for him. “This place is too open, sorry if you were craving chow mein but I’m feeling more like steak fries.” He nods over to a diner-looking restaurant down the way that has an enclosed dining room. 

-

Dave is surprised when he hears Vantas laugh. So he is human, and not some hot, killing rage machine. He catches a smile sneaking into the corner of his mouth and lets it linger, just for a second, before schooling his face back to its natural state. 

He also notices Vantas’ eyes, which are constantly sweeping around the airport, probably scoping threats. Dave glances around too, but nothing looks… like anything. He tries to imagine what he would do if someone came running at them, but he can’t even picture it. However, he can definitely picture Vantas moving into a wide stance, gun drawn and eyebrows on full attack. It’s a good thought. 

He was only half kidding about the whiskey. There was no way he was spending the next month dry. Anxiety crawls up the back of his neck at the thought alone. 

“Okay boss man. None for now. But I’m just gonna throw it out there that no happy juice makes Davey a cranky boy.”

-

Hm. Karkat has dealt with alcoholics before, but none who discussed it aloud in such causal terms, as if it was okay. He considers for a moment if Dave actually is an alcoholic and what that will entail, and then realizes it changes nothing. As long as Dave doesn’t go anywhere without him he can drink as he wants, _it’s not Karkat’s business otherwise_. Trying to stop him would be an uphill battle, not his place, and wanting to help him would be absurd. 

He’s not sure if he feels sad for Dave or if he just wants to roll his eyes and write it off to typical Hollywood star tendencies, though. He tries so hard not to emote, or maybe he just naturally doesn’t and so Karkat still can’t even get a feel for what’s going on under the surface. As someone trained to look for changes in facial expression, he’s actually impressed. 

Whether or not Dave Strider is the celebrity he appears to be or more he can’t tell yet. 

It doesn’t matter, what matters is Dave being safe, so he nods in the direction of the restaurant and starts walking over there, waiting a second for Dave to fall in step. 

Oh hell, Dave wasn’t actually being serious about having alcohol for a meal was he? Something in him withers a little. 

“Don’t worry, you can still have your libations when we get settled. I was just saying that you need some _real food_ before the flight.” 

-

Dave can feel Vantas examining him, but he has no idea what he's thinking. He bites back his questions as they build up and crash into each other on the inside of his mouth like a ten car pile up. What is he thinking? What does he think of Dave specifically? What did he think of Dave before they met and has it changed now? Does he tweeze his eyebrows?

Dave's not like, an alcoholic or anything. It's just. It makes it easier to slip through life sometimes. It’s for when he’s tired, just so tired of the bullshit. Of being himself, of being so fucking alone. Of everything. So he goes to parties and lines shots up like he’s on the one man end of a firing squad, except every barrel is loaded with booze and fifty bad decisions. 

" _Libations._ " Dave smirks, speeding up to match Vantas' stride. "Fucking yeah I will. But I guess I could go for a burger," he says, as they reach the entrance of the restaurant. It's an one of the old fashioned type ones with the checkered tiles, paper hats and high plush bar stools. Dave hops up on a stool, spinning himself back around 180 degrees and planting an elbow on the bar. Smooth.

-

Karkat would much rather not sit up on the stools, still feeling far too exposed, but Strider seems comfortable so he’ll let it slide. One corner of his mouth tips up for a second as the man whirls around and Karkat quickly smothers it. Strider might be aggravating, but he’s at least entertaining. 

It might even be better, no one is really sitting nearby and even the people staffing the bar area float in and out, serving travelers seated elsewhere. 

Karkat goes ahead and seats himself next to Dave with far less flourish, but he sits facing the entrance so that he can watch Dave’s back. A waiter rushes past with a quick “I’ll be right with you,” leaving them alone. 

While they have a moment of privacy, he glances up to the TV behind him to see if there are any revealing updates. Thankfully, it appears to just be a basketball game. He looks back at Dave. 

“So you really have no idea what set all this off, do you? You didn’t accidentally insult someone recently or knock some asshole over at a party, right?” 

-

Vantas' questions catch Dave off guard and he genuinely laughs for a second because honestly, when _wasn't_ he pissing someone off. It wasn't even on purpose, necessarily. 

Usually.

Though the truth is, he doesn't really want to think about this. And he definitely doesn't want to do a play by play of his life and all the people who don't care about him over a strawberry milkshake with two straws, even with Vantas.

He spins on his stool until he's facing Vantas, crossing one leg over the other and leaning on the bar.

"Okay, look dude, I eat hate mail for breakfast. No joke, alright. My personal Hungarian chef, Halseff comes into my room every morning like, Buenos Dias Mr. Strider, here's your two eggs over easy, some rye toast, and oh yeah, the nine hundred death threats that arrived overnight. Then I say, leave me the fuck alone Halsey, can't you see I was in the middle of yanking my morning wood to the sweet afterimages of that recurring wild sex dream I have featuring the legal aged love child of Ewan McGregor and Sofia Vergara? So then he's like, I know the one and I'm so fucking sorry sir, and I say, okay don't even worry about it. Because I'm magnanimous. Then I have him dump everything on the bed and leave, and _then_ I stuff the eggs in my mouth while I finish jerking off _on_ the letters." He pauses. "I think yesterday's batch should still lying around, if you wanna send someone to take a look. Hmm. They should probably bring gloves."

-

_Holy shit_ , Karkat thinks as he glares at Strider, watching him just… make noise out of his loose facial orifice. _I’m gonna need a fucking drink now_. 

His eyes zero in on Strider’s gesticulating hand, eyebrows lowering in irritation. Fuck could this guy talk. Each flip of his hand increases his blood pressure a little bit more. Why does he have to say so much bullshit? He didn’t even call his apparent chef the right name twice. If he has to endure another one of this ridiculous rants he’s going to have to throw down on Excedrin before boarding this flight. 

This is what he gets for trying to actually talk to _Dave Strider_ of all people like a normal person. He had hoped for a second that maybe this wouldn’t be terrible, that maybe he wasn’t terrible, but then Strider had to take that thought, throw it in the garbage and light it on fire. 

“Jesus titfucking christ _kid_ , I get it, you piss people off!” Karkat snaps when he’s done. He’s suddenly not hungry. “I get it, okay? You’re famous and have everything you could ever want, including the hundred thousand haters that come in that package. Boo-fucking-hoo for you, you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, _we know_.” 

A blessing or curse, the waiter comes back around and Karkat shuts his mouth for them to set down menus in front of them. He glances at his watch, they’ve got thirty-five minutes before boarding now. “Just hurry up and pick out what you want, we’ll have to eat on the plane,” he sighs. 

-

Without his shades, Dave has to work harder than normal to keep his face straight. Luckily he’s an expert, well practiced in the art of poker facing your way to the front of TIME magazine's Person of the Year issue. Four times. 

Vantas' eyebrows are doing the Cha Cha. Something settles in his chest. This is what he's used to. This is what all the hate mail is made of. Dave’s entire brand is made up of him doing shit that pisses people off. 

People only like him when he’s acting like an asshole. It’s the job. 

“Did you really just call me kid," he responds flatly. "Because technically I think I would be the sugar daddy in this relationship. I’m not opposed to your way though. We’ll just have to rethink our entire dynamic.” 

Dave pops the menu up on the bar, even though he feels more sick than anything. 

-

“You seem pretty fixated on that word,” Karkat mutters. He deflates internally, maybe he was to hard on the guy. Calling him kid was a bit uncalled for but damn did he just seem to have that shit coming half the time. He doesn’t respond to his comment. If Strider is trying to get a rise out of him he’s got to stop letting him. Karkat has just never been particularly good at not expressing what he’s thinking. 

He doesn’t say anything more other than his order when it’s taken, and asks them to make it to go. _Does it counted as a shared meal if it’s on the plane?_ , he wonders dumbly. Looks like he dodged that hurdle already. With it being an airport the restaurant is pretty quick, and when he’s got the bags in hand he leaves cash on the counter to pay and slides off the stool. 

“Need anything before we leave?” He asks, attempting to bring his tone back to a resting calm.

-

Dave watches Vantas' face twist on his mention of the word _daddy_. It amuses him just about the same amount that it interests him. Unlike Vantas, he doesn't really see what the big deal is. He's just an older, hot dude that he would totally take on a one way trip to bonetown. It is what is is. It'll never happen, but that won't stop him from scoping that ass like he's got an AK-47.

Vantas orders his fries to go, and when the waiter turns to him, Dave tenses a little at the close eye contact.

"Can I have the deluxe angus burger, rare, with an extra patty but make that one medium rare. And give me grilled onions, not raw, only half a slice of tomato, extra pickles. And you better believe I need that toasted brioche bun. Can we also sub the american cheese for aged cheddar? Oh, and add mayo. Mayo is the fucking shit.” He nods his head at Vantas, flashing a wide grin. "To go," he repeats. "We got ourselves a cranky customer over here." 

Vantas doesn't say anything, just rolls his eyes. Swooooon.

"Nah," Dave responds when the food arrives and Vantas asks if he needs anything before they leave. "I guess we'll have to have our date another time."

Vantas continues to ignore him, intent on getting to their gate. Dave follows him, mostly silently, and they board the plane with no extra fuss. Except–

“ _Coach?_ ” he asks, as they squeeze down the tiny aisle. "Why couldn’t we break out the kidnapping choppers this time? Seriously, you can’t even claim to be trying to protect me when the person to my left could decide to shank me in my baby soft abdomen with the knife they carved out of the in-flight safety card after I fall asleep and start drooling on their shoulder in the middle of 500 Days of Summer. Unless. Can I sit in your lap? It's probably the only way you can guarantee my safety." 

-

The only way Karkat can describe how he handles interactions with Strider is as ‘enduring’ them. He’s got obnoxiously rich taste, and it makes Karkat even more annoyed. Look at him in his ivory tower, massive mansion, doing nothing to help the forward march of humanity along. Nobel Peace prize? For fucking what! Broke college kid? Yeah fucking right. Karkat bets he hasn’t wanted for anything a moment in his life. 

He’s going to grow tired of his persistent comments on _dates_ and overtly sexual over-toned wordings. He’s heard tale of seductive clients, and it’s not that Strider is actively trying to, it just has that sort of inclination. 

Karkat doesn’t give into his base inner thoughts. Those he leaves for his Id to wallow in, and he does not drink so it has no method with which to burst forth. He prefers it that way, it allows him to stay focused on the task at hand. 

He’s never been particularly attracted to women anyways, and so Strider’s persistent comments are throwing him because, well, he’d never exactly been involved with a man either. It will hopefully make it easier for him to shove the director’s words to the side as he needs. 

“Thankfully, you have a window seat,” Karkat mutters behind him. “And shut the hell up, you’re making it _very_ obvious.” Honestly, Karkat doesn’t have much to worry about. With this being an international flight there are two air marshals on board. Dave will be on the end, Karkat in the middle, and the air marshal in the aisle. He already knows he won’t sleep a wink the entire time he’s on board, and as such has placed himself towards the back so he can watch for suspicious persons on board, but mostly to get coffee easily if he needs to. 

He nods to the first air marshal as he passes by. To anyone else, they seem like a normal, everyday person, blending easily in with the crowd. But Karkat knows what to look for. They only move their chin imperceptibly, the only acknowledgement needed. Off the top of his head, everyone on this flight is a registered traveler, but that will not put him as ease until they land, over ten hours from then. 

At this point, the biggest question is not whether he can protect Strider, but whether or not he can even manage to not kill him himself. 

-

A ten hour flight next to Vantas? Dave's first thought, after they get to their row and he has an internal mini-meltdown about how little leg room there is, is that he is about to get fucking _drunk._

Then he remembers he doesn't have any money. 

Then he finds out, by manner of flirting heavily with a hella curvy flight attendant, that booze is free on international flights.

Dave's obstacles are twofold: he doesn't need to wonder whether or not Vantas will sit pretty while he gets more lit than the christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, and there's a two drink cut off per passenger.

Dave makes a plan. 

He slumps in his seat, eyes closed, as the plane taxis and the flight attendants go over safety instructions. There's a stranger in the aisle, and then Vantas is sitting next to him, back pin straight and eyes prowling the plane. It's cute, how into it he is, Dave thinks sleepily, before he remembers he's not actually trying to go to sleep. 

As soon as the fasten seat belt sign dings off, Dave is up. He wanders around the cabin, introducing himself and schmoozing his way around to every flight attendant. He tells them all the same story, that he's sitting next to his dad in row 28–adoptive of course–who's a recovering alcoholic and Dave doesn't want to trigger him into having to say no to a drink so as a huge favor is it okay if Dave gets the alcohol he was going to order here and then brings it back to his seat?

Bingo. Even without the shades, Dave smiles and charms his way into pocketing eight little bottles of Jack Daniels before the actual drink service begins.

Victorious, he returns to their row, grinning at Vantas. After second thought, he turns around so he's facing the front of the plane as he sidesteps his way across the small row, making sure to shake his ass just enough to be excused as jostling before he plops down into his seat.

Finally, he closes the shutter of the ovular window where sunlight is streaming in. 

Dave leans toward Vantas, who's been steadily ignoring him the entire time. "Just between us, the only sight I need on this flight is you," he whispers.

-

Who does Strider think he’s fooling? Karkat watches him work the entire cadre of flight attendants to garner a binge-worthy amount of alcohol. He doesn’t care, the guy will have ten hours to sober up more or less, and as long as Karkat can keep him in his line of sight he doesn’t care. He just hopes Dave can refrain from making ridiculous remarks while sitting next to the air marshal, but he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t hold out hope on that one. 

Karkat just sighs when Strider sits down next to him again and blatantly flirts with him, keeping his arms crossed and staring ahead at the seat in front of him. He tries not to think about Strider's overt attempt to shove his ass in his face. 

“I have to say, flattery is the most unconventional form of purposeful irritation I’ve seen thus far,” he mutters back. He honestly doesn’t know what else it could be. He wants to add that it would be in tune with his questionable taste, but that would be putting his own self down, and those are thoughts he’s allowed to think but not speak. He considers calling him out on his winnings but decides against it, he should only pick so many battles with Strider.

-

Dave orders a coke from the drink cart while Vantas gets a water, because of course he does. The guy is blander than a flour tortilla filled with white rice.

Dave immediately downs half his soda and then empties four of his nips into the cup. He can sense Vantas watching him as he leans forward to tuck the empty bottles into the seat compartment in front of him.

Dave was never trying to keep the alcohol a secret from Vantas, just from the flight attendants. Either way, Vantas doesn't say anything to Dave, just continues to ignore him like he's apparently planned to do all ten hours of this flight. He's not even like, reading a book or wearing earbuds or anything. Dave guesses that wouldn't be very good marshaling but still. A guy's gotta take breaks, right?

Twenty minutes in, Dave's finished his drink and he's restless, bouncing a leg up and down in the too small space. He looks at Vantas, who's still ignoring him intently. Dave sees something in the tight way he holds himself, the intensity of his… everything. 

There's discipline there. Something Dave's never had, and the thought stings deep in his chest.

He swallows past the roughness in his throat and presses the bell for the attendant. He was planning to save the second half of the drinks for at least another couple hours, but whatever.

When she arrives it's the curvy one who was definitely into him. He blatantly winks at her and asks for another coke. 

Twenty minutes after that and he's fairly drunk. Normally, this would be an embarrassment to his alcohol tolerance, but they are 35,000 feet in the air. 

Dave's whole body is buzzing and warm. He can barely keep a grin off his face. It takes all nearly of his self control not to worm his arms into Vantas' space like he so desperately wants to. 

He waves a hand in front of Vantas' face and laughs when he lets out a sigh. "Karkat," Dave says loudly. Then, "Shit!" That's a secret. "Karkat," he repeats in a whisper. That's your first name, right?"

-

Karkat is very good at entertaining himself when he needs to. He’s mentally practicing his Italian, which is tad bit rustier than he would like to admit, but once he starts dipping back into Spanish it comes back fine. It’s honestly not necessarily entertainment as the majority of his thoughts are contingency planning. Cataloguing and considering all that could go wrong is a vital part to success. He probably does a bit much though, but with someone as unpredictable as Strider he probably should. There’s a lot that could probably go wrong. 

Example A, his ward is already drunk and it’s not even two hours into this flight. 

It must serve as poetic foreshadowing for how this job is going to go. 

Strider is trying to get his attention, but slips and uses his real name. Wow, he could have seen this one coming a mile away. 

“Apparently, that is my name, Mr. Arlington,” he says, trying to make a point. It’s stupid. He shouldn’t even bother with the fake names at this point, however keeping Strider’s identity under wraps is more important than his own. “Can I help you?” The tension in his words is barely hidden, ground out through his teeth. 

-

The irritation in Vantas' voice instantly drops Dave's mood, and he's too drunk to completely conceal his frown. Vantas’ words and actions have made it abundantly clear that he can't stand Dave. Just like everyone else. He just wishes it didn't feel so shitty, everytime. 

“No,” he sighs. “Never mind.” 

Dave sits in his seat a little longer, sulking, until he decides that he needs another drink. He gets up again, scooting himself into the aisle and stopping to apologize to the man on the end. He stolls toward the service area at the back of the plane, where the curvy flight attendant from earlier is alone, pouring a coffee. She smiles brilliantly at him, forwardly trailing one finger down his chest, and his body is still blanketed in warm and fuzzy feelings, so he leans in and kisses her, eager to get lost in the feeling of someone wanting him, even for a second. 

"I'm Dave Strider," he tells her, and her eyes narrow, and then they go golf ball wide. He asks her to promise to keep his identity a secret and she nods. She gives him four more bottles at his request, and then winks as she saunters into the tiny airplane bathroom without locking the door. 

He shoots back all the bottles when she turns her back. The he slips into the bathroom and eats her out while hoisting her ass up on the miniature sink. She whimpers and pulls at his hair, while he tries to not think about anything at all. 

After she comes he rejects her attempts to reciprocate and she lets herself out of the bathroom. Dave locks the door, his guts churning, and turns around just in time to empty his stomach into the toilet. 

Dave slumps down on the toilet lid afterward, head spinning. His head hits the back wall, and he promptly passes out.


	3. Chapter 3

Karkat is not, in any sense of the word, an idiot.

So when his charge is gone for a little over ten minutes he knows that something is up. He can practically smell the faint whiff of Strider’s bad decisions lingering in the filtered cabin air.

It smells like Jack Daniels and loud cries for attention.

At least the majority of the plane is asleep at this point, but that doesn’t put him anymore at ease.

He squeezes into the aisle, past the unassuming air marshal that thankfully continues to mind their own business, and starts to hunt. It’s a big plane.

The solution to his problem quickly presents itself when he notices that there is only one occupied bathroom at the moment and in his line of sight he can distinguish no sloppy blondes hanging around anywhere.

No wild deduction skills needed here, Sherlock. Thanks for the offer though. His eyes flash around the cabin as he starts to move to the door of that bathroom, the one at the end of the plane right before the flight attendant service area all the way in the back. There’s a curtain drawn between the cabin and that space.

Strider better be be taking a massive shit of glass shards because he does not know what he’s going to do if it’s anything else.

He stands in front of the door and peers out into the cabin to make sure no one is looking directly at him, and then he raps on the door. “Mr… uh.” Shit, that’s too formal for someone checking on a dude in the bathroom. “Hey, Blake?”

There is no answer, so he knocks again, louder this time. He’s got half a mind to peek behind the curtain and ask if any of the flight attendants saw anything.

-

Dave startles awake when he hears knocking on the tiny bathroom door. Oh shit. He groans and clumsily tries to stand up, but slips and falls on something wet on the floor, flailing backward and slamming his tailbone into the toilet lid. _Fuck._

He's dizzy, and fiercely nauseous. His only thought, before he succumbs to the stupor and closes his eyes again, is, Who's _Blake?_

-

Fucking hell. Karkat hears a bit of shuffling from the bathroom, and then a loud thump. He wonders if he can actually smell the alcoholic fumes wafting out of the vent or if he’s just imagining it.

The problem at this point is that he’s quite sure Strider is in there, yet he doesn’t think he should grab the attention of a flight attendant.

He should have never left the man out of his sight for even a second. He had hoped that on the plane, he wouldn’t have issues, but then he had to go and do _this._

Karkat should be mad. He should be fuming. But he’s not, and even the anger he has pales in the light of just how totally unsurprised he is with the situation. He’s mad at himself for not seeing it coming.

Dave Strider making bad decisions is a fact of life.

It is Karkat’s responsibility to circumvent them as much as possible.

But holy shitballs, he couldn’t even wait until they got to London, could he? Karkat internally grumbles that Dave really does have a deathwish, as with every step of the way he’s practically begged for shit to happen. The kicker is that it can really only get worse.

Seriously, what is this guy’s problem? Why does he seem so determined to make Karkat’s life hell and piss off everyone? Who would, with a ten million dollar bounty on their head, get so drunk they pass out in a bathroom? It is just so absurd, so unlikely of any sane person, that he can barely fathom it. Karkat is briefly reminded of a thought he had but did not ruminate on from earlier, that Dave Strider relies on specific defense mechanisms, but he had thought that had just been in regard to his unfortunate morbid humor.

Karkat realizes that he is thinking too much and not actually doing, and his frustration only increases as his thoughts on Strider become more like a house of cards than a tensegrity structure.

He checks to make sure his official marshal badge is on his person, and then he steps back.

His first attempt is a strong kick, which does surprisingly not work, but does seem to loosen the door. It seems the noise has not caught anyone’s attention, so he steps back once more.

With the force of his entire body, he throws himself shoulder first into the bathroom door to bust it open. It cracks and folds back, revealing none other than Dave Strider, slumped up on the wall of the bathroom. Shit. Karkat hurriedly shoves himself into the tiny bathroom space and slides closed the now likely broken door behind him.

He leans forward and shakes Strider by the shoulder urgently. “Holy shit Strider,” he says lowly. “How much did you fucking drink?”

-

Dave wakes up again to a loud sound and then someone shaking him violently. The actions make his stomach churn and his eyes pop open. It's Vantas, of course. Fuck.

Dave puts up a finger toward him, and then slides off the toilet, only to lift the lid and puke into it once again.

He lets his head hang for a second, bracing himself with his arm on the rim. As he returns to full consciousness, the feeling of a million tiny daggers making themselves cozy in his frontal lobe slowly manifests. He makes a non-verbal sound, somewhere between a gag and a groan.

And somewhere deep down, under all the pain and the nausea, he feels a trickle of shame that he's too weak to wipe away.

"A lot," he finally responds quietly to Vantas' question. He has the presence of mind to reach up and flush the toilet, then fumble for some tissue to clean his mouth.

After a second, he slowly pushes himself up to his feet, but immediately stumbles dizzily. Dave almost falls into Vantas, but manages to catches himself on the wall. He closes his eyes and rests his aching forehead on the cool plastic. "Sorry," he tells the floor.

-

“Christ, man,” Karkat mutters, backing up into the bathroom door as Dave retches away from him. Airplane bathrooms already smell bad, and this is worse.

Strider looks pathetic. He looks washed out, dehydrated. His eyes are glazed and droopy.

Karkat pities him in that moment, and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s got half a mind to knock some sense into him, shake him by the shoulders and make it clear that his life is in danger…

And another half that wants to take him to the side and ask him, no bullshit, _Why?_

He doesn’t understand why or what could bring this handsome young star to this level of pitiful action.

Like they always do, the memory strikes him out of nowhere.

_The people are watching him and his partner as the trudge out of the drybrush and into the shoddy town. Men and women in bright but dirtied clothes walk by, holding large baskets on their heads._

_Everything is dirt. The tall grasses are all yellow. The arid climate makes sweat drip down his neck only to get instantly evaporated._

_Karkat is thirsty, and tired, and they have been walking for a long time from town to town, extracting information on the local guerilla faction tactics and triangulating their base of operations on foot._

_Gamzee slips into a hut when they get into the main drag of the town, grinning at him but not saying anything. Karkat waits to the side, awkwardly shifting his gun, feeling the eyes of the locals on him as they pass by._

_Gamzee slips back out of the hut and jogs back over to him. A woman steps out and waves at them, motioning for them to come in. Gamzee tells him they’ve got some ‘hot fucking food’ ready for them._

_Karkat looks at him incredulously. “How the fuck did you do that?”_

_“Gamzee only grins. “Don’t you know, motherfucker? You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”_

Karkat sighs and looks down at Dave. “You really hit the sauce hard, didn’t you? I’m gonna get you some water, please for the love of god don’t go anywhere.” He moves to step out of the doorway, but pauses. “When I get back, I think we should maybe uh, talk, for a little bit. If that’s okay with you.” His words feel forced, but he says them anyways.

He slips out and after a very strange interaction with the flight attendant, he returns with a large bottle of water used for serving passengers. He shuts the door behind him again as he hands it to Strider.

“Alright. Why are you already drinking like it’s your last day on Earth? No bullshit, man. I cannot even begin to impress upon you how important your survival is to me.”

-

Dave sighs. He thought Vantas would be furiously yelling at him right now, but instead he was looking at Dave with something easily approaching pity.

His stomach rolls. He’s never had such a fast turn around from drunk to feeling like his body wants to turn itself inside out.

He avoids looking at Vantas by taking a sip of the water. It’s childish, but brings him a small amount of comfort. Eye contact is hard. Always has been.

“According to you,” he responds,“It could be.”

Dave hiccups. “And no offense, but your _sacred mission_ doesn’t mean shit to me.” He speaks slowly, like he’s pulling every word from a pit of quicksand. “We’re not about to have some heart to heart where I tell you my mom was an alcoholic and my dad beat me as a kid and you tell me about how you were forced to eat rats in some prison in Afghanistan or how you had to carry one of your squadmates on your back after their legs got blown off or whatever.”

-

Karkat recoils like he’s been slapped. Strider basically did, verbally confirming that he did indeed have a death wish in the same breath as insulting him with his most painful memory.

He just always had to go for neck, didn’t he?

Karkat had been able to put most of the fight out of himself already, but the rest of it leaves his body as his shoulders slump down.

He crosses his arms, rubs one hand down his mouth as Dave finishes his statement. _Ah, shit, come on, now’s not the time._ Usually he wouldn’t be so impacted by such a statement, but the strangely charged atmosphere kicks it off inside him.

For a moment he stares off into the wall behind Dave’s head, eyes glazing over. He’s speaking before he realizes it.

“My best friend died in my arms there,” he says quietly, voice wavering.

-

The sudden emotion in Vantas’ voice slaps Dave into reality.

“Shit.”

_Please don’t be crying._

Why did he do this? It’s like he’s a shit factory with the wrong output mechanism. Dave kicks his plain brown shoe into the side of the sink compartment. “I’m sorry.”

The ringing in his head is getting worse.

“Look,” he says, squinting into the fluorescent lights to look up at Vantas, “I’m just—I’m fucked up, dude.”

-

Strider apologizes and Karkat shakes his head, snapping himself out of it.

He was fucked up. Obviously.

“Of course you’re fucked up, who the hell isn’t in some way? Just… fuck.” He sighs. “Listen, you don’t have to tell me why but we’re in this together now. If your own life means that little to you, than I’d at the very least hope you wouldn’t value another’s the same way.”

He hoped the implication of his words were clear— _You don’t want to see me dead either, do you?_

-

Dave is tired. He’s done with this already, so done. He's too tired and in too much pain to think about how much his life means to him. It's not much, he knows that.

Of course he doesn't _want_ Vantas to die. But that only means that he shouldn't waste his time on Dave at all. No one should.

He wants reach out, to give Vantas _something_ to express why he's such a worthless pile of shit, but his head is throbbing and the words won't come out.

“Yeah okay,” he finally agrees weakly. "I'll be a good boy."

-

Karkat presses his lips into a fine line. “That’s not what I meant,” he mutters. He sighs, trying to bite back some of his exasperation. “I get it. You hate this situation. I’m not happy about it either. I’d rather be home right now”—not that he necessarily had a real home—“Doing anything but this. I’m sure you’d rather be up in your big mansion doing whatever it is famous people do in their free time. Unfortunately, life isn’t fucking fair for either of us so here we are. So I’d like you to tell me what I can do to make this process as painless as possible for the both of us so that one, neither of us end up dead, and two, we don’t kill each other first. I’m not dumb, it’s not hard to tell you’re pretty damn eager to get out of my company, and yeah I’ve made it clear I’m not your biggest fan. But it doesn’t change that shit could rain down over _our_ heads any time now.”

Karkat rants that out and looks down at Dave, who seems to be piteously barely paying attention. “Fuck, you’re a mess. I’m gonna get you some Advil, stay put.” He doesn’t wait for Strider’s answer, he just slips back out of the bathroom to hunt down his carry-on for the whatever painkillers he brought on board. He should have asked if he was an Aleve or Excedrin kind of guy, but assumes the latter.

As he digs into his bag, he thinks about this new interaction he’s just had. Strider seemed so _miserable._ It was almost like his bone structure was the only thing keeping him from sinking through the floor and into oblivion.

It was bewildering, because he couldn’t tell if the director really was the celebrity asshole he pretended to be… or if something was very, very wrong with Dave Strider.

He ends up grabbing the entire pill bottle where he keeps a mix of those drugs on hand and walks them back to the bathroom, thankful for the slumber that seemed to have fallen over the passengers and even flight attendants. He slips back into the bathroom and shakes it.

“Pick your poison,” he says, holding it out to Dave.

-

Dave takes the bottle from Vantas, shakes three pills into his hand and swallows them down without looking at them.  

He doesn’t get it. No one will ever get it. Why would Dave Strider hate his life? He has everything: adoring fans, accolades, a sprawling mansion in Beverly Hills.

That fucking mansion. If he was home now he’d probably be getting some combination of high and drunk, like always, and then watching three hour infomercials about rotisserie ovens, like always.

Alone, like always.  

“I know you just want to do your job,” Dave says, uncapping the big bottle to take a swig of water. They’re standing so close together in the tiny bathroom that he barely has to talk above a whisper." But you don’t have to pretend to care about me. _I_ don’t even care about me. And you can bet your bubble ass no one will care when I’m gone, except these people that want me dead. And even that,” he laughs sadly and then grimaces at the resounding sharp pain in his head, “Will be a celebration.”

-

Karkat doesn’t know a lot of things.

But this, what Strider is showing him now, is something he recognizes immediately.

It is a man in intense pain. Dave Strider is hurting way deep in his soul, and it is now seeping out uncontrollably.

Karkat blinks at the revelation, struggling for words, and tries to understand.

“But you’re… you’re famous. You have _fans._ You have people that are crazy for you,” he tries, still unable to comprehend this massive flip in his actions and words.

-

“Right,” Dave sighs. He slaps a hand over his face and immediately regrets it. He hasn’t been this honest with anyone in a long fucking time. It only took a dozen drinks until Vantas had to break down the bathroom door. It’s a fitting metaphor for his life, really.

“That’s like saying everyone who gets a tub of popcorn at the movies has a deep personal relationship with the corn farmer, dude. My fans don’t _know_ me, they just like the shit I make. Literally. I could probably sell a log of my own shit online to hundreds of bidders, and it would be more cared for. It would get toted around on a plush ass velvet pillow and tucked into bed with a kiss every night. My fans don’t care about me. They’re interested in the idea of me, and what I can do for them. That’s just the way it is.”

-

Karkat can’t tell him he’s wrong, because he’s not. He can’t prove him otherwise either.

He has a thousand questions floating in the periphery of his brain, like why Strider had been such an ass when they’d first met, but none of them feel right.

He doesn’t know why to say. He’d just learned so much about the director, and now he barely even knows how to go forward with him.

“Stri—Dave,” He says. The change comes out of nowhere; it just feels right. “I… I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

-

Hearing Vantas say his name in that soft, concerned tone immediately constricts Dave's windpipe and claws fire at his face. All of his other, alcohol related pains become background noise to the onset of unwanted emotions that flood the tiny bathroom.

Dave forces the thoughts away, breathing lungful after lungful of stale, recycled air, until his heart rate slows and he feels the anxiety break like a fever. He laughs dryly with relief.

"It's fine," he says when he's confident his voice won't shake. "Really. My only problem right now is that I gotta take a shit big enough to orbit planet Jupiter." He raises the water bottle with a smile as fake as it is familiar. "But good lookin' out."

-

_It’s not fine,_ Karkat thinks. _None of this is fine._ The director seemed to crumple even further in on himself and Karkat feels stuck. He doesn’t know this guy, and now he wonders how well, or even if anyone else does.

He knows this very game, the one that Dave just admitted to playing. The one where he pretends to be something he isn’t in every action and waking moment. Karkat is very good at that game, and he only drops it in moments of weakness.

Not now though.

“Right, well, I broke the door so, you want me to hang outside or just wait back in the row.”

-

>

Dave could almost smile at how awkward Vantas is being. But his amusement in the moment is being strongly countered by how oh so badly he wants to be alone right now. On the bright side, he's already feeling the pressure in his head decrease. Shit, those pain pills must have been the real fucking deal.

"You sure did," he observes dryly. "You were the brave knight to my damsel in distress. In fact, I'm not sure I'll be safe enough if you leave. Maybe you should wait in here, just in case, because the sound of me dropping this enormous load will probably be loud enough for those mob bosses to find me by like, even rudimentary echolocation."

-

Karkat sighs. Well, he should have seen that coming. “Okay then!” He slips out and hopes no one walks in on Dave.

When he gets back to his seat he does laugh though. Dave Strider was actually pretty funny, beneath his ten layers of bullshit.

When that subsided, Karkat now has a lot, _a lot_ to think about.

He’s never interacted with someone that made his own internal classification of them change so quickly. Dave Strider clearly has issues Karkat is not entirely aware of still. When Karkat gets back into his seat it’s hard for him not to slump down as he considers what all that means for them.

Dave clearly does not care for his life, when it is Karkat’s full duty to protect him.  

_You can’t save everyone,_ a voice from his past gently reminds him. He hunches forward in an attempt to stave off the emotions it invokes. He knows he can’t save everyone. He knows he can’t save Dave Strider from his own inner turmoil that he still barely understands but recognizes.

But he wants to.

-

The moment Vantas disappears, Dave deflates. What just happened there?

He sits back on the toilet lid, dropping his head into his hands. If Vantas didn’t shrug it off as bullshit, Dave has just told him more about himself than he’s ever told anyone before.

Even if his words were only semi-true, and far from the full story. His mother _was_ an alcoholic, but it wasn’t his dad who beat him. Not even close.

But it’s not the time to think about that. After a few minutes, Dave gets up to leave, pulling the little door shut as best he can. It wobbles, dangerously loose on its hinges. Bizarrely, he wishes he could have been _not_ passed out when Vantas had to kick the door in. _It’s just his job,_ he uselessly reminds himself again.

As he walks back to his seat, Dave keeps his eyes on the carpeted aisle, not at all interested in whether anyone had witnessed the spectacle that took place over the last hour. He also decides not to say anything to Vantas about the flight attendant. It’s just easier. Plus, she _promised._

He slumps into his seat, immediately turning his face toward the window. He really doesn't want to see how, or even if, Vantas is looking at him right now. Because he fucking cares. Dave cares what Vantas thinks of him now, and all it had taken were a few soft looks and a busted bathroom door.

Luckily for the way Dave’s chest feels like it’s folding in on itself, every cell in his body is screaming at him to stop angsting the fuck out and start sleeping. He closes his eyes and settles in for the rest of the ride, cradling the water bottle in his lap.

-

Karkat watches Dave out of the corner of his eye after he slips back into the aisle. This time Dave is delicate with his movements, not daring to touch him.

It’s quite a change from before.

Dave hunches to the side, looking out the window, completely avoidant. Karkat knows better than to engage him, he can see the unhappy shame lining his frame. It loosens out after a few minutes when Karkat can see that he’s actually sleeping.

Is it the calm before the storm of Dave Strider, or is he just in the eye for now?

Karkat indulges in watching a movie as the ride wears on and gets coffee whenever a flight attendant floats by. It’s peaceful, for a time. He can put off sleep until they’re settled.

He tries not to think too much about what happened in that small bathroom, wondering the validity of some of Dave’s comments. Alcoholic mother? Did he actually feel that way about his fame? Why does Karkat feel like he’s now cognizant of a side of Dave that no one else in the world knows about? The interaction he just had clashes against everything he knows about Dave Strider.

The coffee keeps him awake, but he’s internally muddled and thinking about it all is burning too much mental energy he needs to conserve if he doesn’t sleep, so he temporarily turns off those thoughts.

They even land a bit early, adding to their already large, two hour layover.

Karkat hesitantly shakes Dave awake when the plane descends into London airspace, noting how the director looks tired and dehydrated. He should get him into a better state before the next leg of their flight. Keeping his charge healthy is part of his job, right?

“Are you a bangers and mash or fish and chips kind of guy?”

-

When Vantas shakes him awake it feels like Dave tumbles into a new, hellish existence. His head feels light and disoriented for a few seconds before reality hits him, as well as a very real hangover.

He distantly hears Vantas' question as they exit the plane, but eating is the furthest thing on his mind.

“Oh, there’s not a day where I wouldn’t enjoy swallowing a hot sausage,” he says with a wink. Or, he tries to wink but ends up grimacing instead. Not that it matters, since Vantas is in front of him in the narrow aisle. “Actually, can we not discuss food. Or anything that would potentially be in or around my mouth.” He groans, clutching his stomach.

Dave’s pretty used to hangovers. A weird part of him has always revealed in the grounded feeling. Pain always feels so… unmistakably real.

He catches himself dreading the two hours he have to kill in the airport with Vantas, then realizes he’s going to spending much more time than that with him when they reach their destination.

Death is looking better by the minute.

-

Karkat looks to catch his expression. Dave looks the opposite of okay. He catches the hot sausage comment and specifically chooses not to think anything of it. When is Dave Strider not spouting bullshit innuendo?

“You need electrolytes, you’re dehydrated from being in the air and drinking so goddamn much. Think you can at least handle fluids? ” It’s been awhile since he’s been through Heathrow, but he’s sure there’s somewhere around here with trendy bone broth or something of the like.

-

Woah. Dave swallows the comment about just what fluids he’s interested in handling. Having someone who’s actually invested in his welfare is new. Fuck, this is all new.

He squints his eyes against the bright storefront lights. Those, and the hectic sounds of the airport are not exactly ideal right now. What he really needs are his shades.

“I’ll pass on the electrolytes, but can we stop for a pair of shades? That shit’s like, hangover 101.” He hesitates. “And uh, you don’t have to like, take care of me or anything. I mean, except for like, if a shower of bullets suddenly starts raining from the sky, _then_ you’re free to stretch yourself over my young, quivering body to absorb the impact.”

He lets his eyes travel down to Vantas’ midsection, resisting the urge to poke at him. “Actually, do you even have a bulletproof vest on? Or is it just all soft in there?”

-

Karkat swings around to look at him. “ _Absolutely not._ Until we get to Italy I don’t want to see anything remotely resembling sunglasses on your face. There is one thing keeping you from being recognized right now and it’s the fact that for once people can actually see your oh-so-worthy of obscuration eyeballs.” _They are actually nice eyes, too. Wonder why he hides them._

That was an unnecessary thought. It came out of nowhere.

He can see Dave’s eyes float down to his abdomen and flashes back to that moment in the debriefing room when Dave was appraising him and his physicality for his ability to do his job. Except like much that Dave says, this statement is halved by a tone inherent in his words, the impression that it’s not all just business. It makes Karkat… uncomfortable. It’s a sensation he’s not prone to. He ends up deciding that Dave is still wavering on Karkat’s competency, a much more agreeable conclusion. “A vest would weigh me down. I’m capable of protecting you without one.” Hopefully that gets the point across.

“And for the record, I do have to take care of you.” A half-truth. “My job is to keep you alive, and you seem spectacularly bad at self-preservation as is, just an observation.”

-

Dave has to admire Vantas' refusal to acknowledge any of the vaguely sexual comments and more blatant innuendos he's been dumping all over him like hot trash in July. It just feels more uncomfortable _not_ to do it at this point. There's also the fact that Vantas is sitting at a solid ten out of ten on the sexy bodyguard scale, a score that's definitely boosted up by the sheer power of his ass alone.

"Fine, no shades. But you can't blame me when a cascade of beautiful men and women start falling left and right at my feet. The truth is, I wear shades for the good of all humanity. The average person just isn't meant to stare too long at a Strider’s eyes. Even I can barely handle it most mornings."

He actually couldn't. Being forced to stare into his own eyes in a mirror could almost be a form of torture for Dave. There was this emptiness there that he preferred not to face.

He doesn't really have a response for the self-preservation comment, or at least not one he wants to say out loud. He doesn't doubt that Vantas can protect him at all. It's just that his life, _it isn't valuable._ Not in any way that matters, at least.

He claps a hand to his face to hide the way it twists, taking a deep breath through his nose.

"I feel like fucked shit,” he groans. “Anyway, let's go get some chicken noodle soup or something before we're overtaken by a horde of drooling passerby, and then you can tuck me into my seat and shower me all you want with get better kisses."

-

“Yeah, you look like hell, so I don’t think anyone’s gonna be falling at your feet until we fix that.”

He takes a moment to consider Dave himself. Without the shades and fancy suit, does he still exude that same cocky stardom that Karkat had grow accustomed to seeing in the news, in the papers? It was absurd, paradoxical even, that the Dave Strider standing before him was the very same man who’d painted his way across every magazine cover and shitty tabloid existing, spurred tweet after tweet and more, because Dave was both that person but at the same time not at all. How could he be exactly what he expected but simultaneously completely different?

Karkat makes a point to not pay attention to celebrity ongoings, but not hearing about Dave Strider had been an impossibility.

And now… he is not blind. Dave Strider, he supposes, is indeed conventionally attractive, rich, and obnoxious, but yet painfully _sad._ Broken, even. He can’t make sense of it, especially not off the insufficient interaction they’d had thus far. He’s still not entirely anticipating the surplus of that he’s about to have.

Thinking too much on too little sleep is a bad idea. “Come on,” Karkat says. “I think I know a place.”

He turns back forward and dives in to the busy airport terminal, glancing back to make sure Dave is following. He’s back on high alert again, especially in the clusters of people going this way and that now that they are through customs. He guides them to an upscale cafe and requests a seat in a quiet corner, away from the masses. Maybe, hopefully, this meal won’t go as terrible as the first.

He’s left looking at his menu and avoiding Dave in his line of sight. What could he even ask or say that wouldn’t be responded to with the director’s usual jumble of odd extended metaphors, wandering self-praise and inappropriate compliments?

-

Dave is aware enough to notice Vantas is avoiding looking at him. However, he's not aware enough to know what to say to the guy. _Haha, remember that time four hours ago when you watched me puke into a toilet? Good times, right?_

He thinks back to what Vantas had said about his best friend dying in his arms. Fuck, that was heavy. He drums his fingers on the table, wishing for the millionth time today that he had his phone.

"Nice place," Dave comments, looking around. "You really know how to treat a lady."

He still feels a little woozy, but decides to order the soup of the day when the waitress comes around. He's too exhausted to even pull any bullshit and try to order it with gold flakes or something.

Dave gets the impression that Vantas is letting him take the conversational wheel this time. Or maybe it's just that he doesn't want to talk, but fuck sitting there in silence. Silence is the enemy. Silence is what creeps up on you and makes you think about things that are better off left alone.

"How did you score this gig anyway?" he asks. "Do you guys have like, a running list of all the people who need protection and then you lay dibs on the best ones? Or rank them all one to ten, where one is like, I hope he dies and ten is like, I will sit directly on his face for the entirety of our time together?" Dave leans forward and puts both hands on the table. "Spill it, I'm a ten, right?"

-

Karkat is conflicted. They’d managed to get through ordering without much of Strider’s expected babbling, and then he shoots that little number. He honestly hadn’t been expecting any conversation at all.

So on one hand, that was a completely ridiculous and over-sexualized statement.

On the other hand, it was absolutely hilarious.

_You used to have a sense of humor,_ some part of his brain reminds him.

_And it doesn’t help me protect him,_ Karkat shoots back.

‘Sit on his face’ is quite a statement though. What would a seven be? Chained up in his room? Okay, that’s a completely unnecessary thought. He must be tired.

He does let himself smirk, though. “Yeah you sure would like that, wouldn’t you?” It just… slips out.

He shouldn’t have said that, continuously making light of Dave’s invariable masochistic streak. And ugh, the phrasing. He quickly launches himself into explanation, like the professional he would be if not acutely sleep-deprived. “I just happened to be between cases. There are sometimes bad people that I apprehend and my job is to protect the greater population from them, let the justice system do its work. Doesn’t always work like that, though. And those people I would be left to die if my job didn’t demand otherwise. But mm… as far as I know you don’t deserve people hunting you down.” He sits up a little bit. How does he word this? “Those bad people don’t deserve to be protected. But you… haven’t done anything, so you do. No matter what.” He clears his throat uncomfortably. Where was he even going with this?  


-

Holy shit, stop the phone, hold the presses—did Vantas just _flirt_ with him?

Dave only hears half of what he says next, his mind is too busy replaying that last few seconds over and over in his head.

Whether he had meant it that way or not, Dave is now more flustered than he has any right to be over half a smile and a suggestively worded reply.  

He does catch the last part though. It's true, he hasn't done anything. So therefore, he deserves protection… He struggles to accept the words; they glance off his mind like sunlight on the surface of a lake.

"Thanks for telling me all about the _bad people,_ papa," he says, leaning back. Now that he's looking at Vantas head on, he can't help but notice just how _tired_ he looks. "Holy shit dude," he says, completely changing track, "The bags under your eyes are so big we need to go return them to Ikea."

-

Karkat sighs as Dave goes off again with the father-derivative word pet name. He should really tell him to stop doing that, but he’s sure that that would just lead to another highly uncomfortable chain of conversation and it’s probably just better to avoid it altogether.

Or maybe he kind of likes it.

Alright, that’s the sleep deprivation talking. It’s so easy to let the locks on those parts of his brain slowly unlatch and release thoughts not meant to see daylight when he’s like this. Once he sleeps it will all be forgotten.

At least Dave changes the conversation altogether. “‘Chronic insomniac’ might as well be in the job description. It’s fine I’ll sleep when we get to the house. Did you sleep alright on the flight? Just because I’m expected to have absurd hours doesn’t mean you should.”

-

When the food arrives, Dave plays around with his spoon, not eating.

"Probably not enough," he answers, "But definitely more than I normally get."

Insomnia, though. Looks like they have something in common. He's not sure what prompts him to keep going. "Yeah, I probably haven't had a real night of sleep since I was a kid. It's like all the sheep I was supposed to be counting every night went and fucked off to some other field, trying to find out if the grass really is greener on the other side."

He had thought that sleeping would become easier over time. That once he didn't have to be on guard every hour of every day, he would finally be able to rest. But it didn't turn out that way. Being too frightened to sleep turned into staying up all night to work on his movies, which became just lying alone, surrounded by dozens of empty rooms, and plagued by a nameless, restless anxiety.

-

Karkat raises an eyebrow. This is the most normal statement Dave has told him so far.

Strangely, it doesn’t make him feel like stabbing his eyes out with a fork.

He chuckles. It’s a funny comment, it’s fair enough to laugh. “Yeah, I’m familiar with the feeling.” Part of it was that the sleep always came with the flashbacks, and more often than not he would wake up at odd hours in a cold sweat. After so much of that he certainly came to dread his slumbering hours and the inevitable pain it would bring. He hopes at no point he’ll have to share a room with Dave, there is no way he’d be able to avoid that happening.  
  
He watches Dave pointedly, waiting for him to eat. He’s not really sure what to say, if Dave wants to keep talking to him at all.

“Well they say successful people don’t sleep, which you definitely are, so it seems like it’s worked out for you. Anyways, you gonna eat?” He’s not antsy to get out of there, he just wants Dave to recover for the next leg.

-

When Vantas laughs at his joke, Dave has to work to stop the smile that tries to push its way onto his face. He's not sure if he's completely successful.

It's all starting to feel like a little too much. The pseudo-flirting, the eye contact, the easy personal discussion… it's all a lot. A lot more than Dave's done with anyone in a long time.

He doesn't have anything to say to the successful comment that won't sound ungrateful or condescending as fuck. Yes, Dave is Webster's dictionary confirmed successful, and yes, he has the money, fans, and Oscars to prove it; but had it _worked out_ for him? Well, just taking stock for the day, he was currently on the lam from some mob kingpin, and the closest person to him in his life was the government agent who was reluctantly assigned to protect him.

The way Vantas is eyeing him down hard is making Dave a little antsy in his seat. He takes several huge mouthfuls of soup while forcing himself to stare back. "Yeah," he says, when his mouth is full. The whole thing kind of backfires when he tries to swallow it all down at once and nearly chokes on minestrone.

" _You_ gonna eat?" he follows up smoothly after a few seconds of coughing, putting his elbow on the table and pointing his spoon at Vantas.

-

Karkat watches to make sure Dave isn’t actually choking before he reaches for his spoon. He was just waiting for Dave, really.

“Oh, I am,” he says. _Just was waiting for the guest of honor to go first,_ he thinks wryly. It would be needless to say and there’s no way it wouldn’t sound pointed, plus he’s kind of over these backhanded exchanges with Dave for the day.

Hard to believe it is only day one for them.

They eat in silence, Karkat’s eyes continuously flickering to strangers that float through the restaurant space. No one sets off any mental alarms.  
  
When Dave finishes eating there is no rush.  
  
He takes the check and they just sit for a few. “You… feeling any better?” Karkat chances. They could always stay a little longer and take advantage of the water refills until he’s hydrated, if need be.

-

Dave thinks for a second. He does feel better. Maybe not one hundred percent, but his head hurts significantly less. And the dense fog that was encircling his head has eased, slightly. He clanks the spoon against the sides of his empty soup bowl while watching Vantas sizing up everyone that comes into his line of vision. A man at work. It's far from a bad sight.

"Yeah," Dave says. "I do. Thanks for making me well, Dr. Vantas, sir. And you paid too? What a keeper."

-

It’s a sarcastic comment, but Karkat is relieved. He at least needs Dave with it enough that they could make a run for it if they needed to, at some point in the near future. Dave had also looked so piteous, and it would have taken a complete asshole to completely ignore that.

As the time down to boarding nears he finally has them leave the restaurant and head to the gate.

The flight from London to Italy is much better than what they just endured, a little over two hours compared to a full ten. There’s no further conversation, only whatever is required to get them from point A to point B. Karkat drinks more coffee, and hopes that he might actually sleep, a dead, dreamless sleep, when they finally get settled.

They won’t be taking another connecting flight to Genoa, but taking a train from the Milan airport down to the oceanside city. From Milan and on, subtlety will be key to success, but at this point Karkat is pretty sure no one is on their tail from LA. No one has recognized Dave without his glasses and usual glamorous outfits, and his miserable disposition likely aided with that.

The Mediterranean air is so, so close now, and Karkat can almost taste it.

Dave does groan impatiently when Karkat tells him the train down is an hour and a half, and Karkat honestly can’t blame him. It’s a long day of traveling, with or without something to distract yourself with. But he does promise that he’ll get Dave set up with a _nice_ burner phone when they get into the city. After he sleeps.

Nighttime has fallen, but the city is lit up beautifully as they pass through.

The weight of a day and more of traveling sits heavy in his muscles as they scale the outdoor stone steps up to their condo overlooking the sea. He’s going to flip if this isn’t the right place, getting there was an ordeal in itself. The steps are thankfully obscured by bushes along the hill, so he doesn’t worry so much about wandering eyes in the night. 

“Holy shit, I think we finally made it,” he comments. He takes a moment to inhale some ocean breeze, and it’s so much better than whatever shitty air was back in LA.

The lights are on in the the home below the condo, which hopefully houses the contact point. In this case, it’s a slightly older woman who had readied the place for them. When Karkat knocks on the door, she opens it and greets him enthusiastically in Italian. Despite his exhaustion, he can’t help but smile back as she pulls him down for a two cheek kiss greeting. She goes along with their cover story (two friends visiting Italy for a while) and asks them how their travels have been. She greets Dave in the same manner, a cheek kiss on both sides, but if she knows his true identity she doesn’t show it. She warmly wraps both her hands around Karkat’s as she hands him the key to their temporary lodging.

Karkat can’t help but wonder if she knows what’s going on or if she really is a local. The latter makes him uneasy— what if people come for Dave? She could very well be in the crossfire.

But for now, he thinks they are safe. He’ll be able to sleep. Maybe.

Karkat unlocks the door and pushes it open, and he lets Dave in before closing the door behind him and locking it up. He holds a hand out for Dave to stay put in the entryway as he slips through the rest of the house to determine its vacancy. He can quickly tell they are alone.

He calls Dave into the kitchen area. “We’re good. You’re safe.”

There’s a tempting bowl of fruit laid out for them on the island counter, likely from the host. It all plays very well into the airbnb aesthetic they’re aiming for. A safe house or vacation pad, who will ever know?

“I need to pass the fuck out. Don’t call for me unless you are literally dying, thanks.” He regards Dave stiffly, standing in the hallway leading to his room on the end. “I’ll uh… see you in the morning, alright?” He considers reminding Dave not to go anywhere but that seems pretty well implied already.  

-

Fuck traveling. Dave doesn't even know when his hangover ends and the exhaustion begins. More likely it's been there all along, hidden under a dozen layers of _what the fuck is happening right now._

He's too tired to put on a good face, and anyway, he's the one who's being inconvenienced here, right? The truth is, without the energy, money, or permission to keep up the Strider aesthetic, he's a little lost. He feels raw, stripped down to his core, and it's uncomfortable as all hell. The only thing making one foot move in front of the other at this point is the promise of getting a good night's sleep and a cell phone, so he can dive back into the sweet, mind numbing potion that is the internet.  

He zombies straight through the entire trek up to the house, and their greeting of the older woman who lives downstairs. Vantas says goodnight and disappears into his room, and then it's just Dave, standing in a darkened hallway and wondering how exactly his life has led him to this point.  

Dave doesn't sleep well, or that is to say, he sleeps as well as he usually sleeps, which is not great. His bed is pillowy soft and smells like fresh laundry, a fucking cool ocean breeze even drifts in through the open window. But he still can't sleep more than a couple of hours. Broken sleep he's used to, but with no phone there's nothing to occupy his mind as he lies in bed, waiting for sleep that will never come.

So of course, his thoughts drift to Vantas. Karkat Vantas, his government assigned, unjustly hot bodyguard. Vantas, who Dave was going to be spending a good chunk of the foreseeable future sequestered in a vacation home with like two eloped lovers. The same Vantas who's made it perfectly clear that he doesn't actually care about Dave, that this is just a job to him, another gold star on his long list of accomplishments.

He tries and fails to convince himself that he doesn't actually care about Vantas not caring. That their moment in that tiny airplane bathroom was meaningless, alcohol fueled bullshit. It's a lopsided feeling that makes his throat feel stiff and dry. He rolls over once again, like he can squash the thoughts with his body.

When the clock over the door tells him it's 7am, Dave finally gets out of bed. He takes a good, long shower, dries off, then heads into the rest of the house without bothering to put on any clothes. He can do this. It's fine. If they were going to play the happy couple, then it was going to be all or nothing.

He throws open the set of large curtains opposite the kitchen to reveal sliding glass doors that lead to a sunny back patio, framed by a sparkling seascape. The fridge is modestly stocked with typical bed and breakfast fare—a loaf of bread, carton of eggs, bacon, sausage links, and a jug of orange juice. Hell yes.

The pan starts to smoke halfway into frying the sausages, and Dave goes over to open the sliding doors to ventilate. The room fills with the bright chirping of birds and soft sounds of the ocean. It would probably be pretty peaceful, if it wasn't accompanied by the shrill sounds of the fire alarm going off. Oops.


	4. Chapter 4

Karkat sleeps, somehow. 

Once upon a time, he’d been able to adapt to time changes like this in an instant. 

A little older now, it’s just not as easy. 

He sleeps for a few hours before finding himself awake at four am, as always, no matter what fucking time zone or slice of the world he’s residing in, gasping as nightmares fade away. He sits up in bed. 

Still dark out.

He checks his watch. It’s not set to the right time zone, he needs to change it later. He runs a hand through his hair and lays back down, willing his breathing to calm down. He’s used to this. The nightmares are nothing new. At least he’s not forced to share a room with Dave, he’d surely reveal his _post traumatic stress disorder induced by watching friends and comrades die violently_ , yadda yadda blah blah therapy speak, and Karkat wasn’t keen on thinking about it. He was even less interested in Dave knowing about it. 

For now he could lay in bed and watch the sunrise through the window over the seaside. 

Silver linings, maybe. 

Thoroughly exhausted from the previous day of travel, Karkat manages to drift in and out of sleep over those next few hours, almost blissfully. 

He does dream, abstractly. He’s holding someone close, his eyes closed, nose buried in their hair. 

An alarm rings and Karkat launches out of bed. 

Is that… does he smell smoke? The rare dream forgotten, he scrambles to his feet, grabbing his gun off the bedside. He doesn’t even bother putting on a shirt over his loose sweatpants and pulls open the door, his mind running wild with possibility. 

Sticking to the wall of the hallway, he steps slowly towards the kitchen, gun at the ready. Had someone thought to set fire to the house, having learned Dave was within? Of all the possible attempted methods of murder, arson was least common. His just awoken mind can’t comprehend it yet. 

Karkat was aware that he was overreacting, but he could never be too careful. He steps out into the kitchen space only to see Dave, matching him in shirtlessness, turning on the vent over what appears to be eggs and sausage. 

He huffs and shoves the gun away in his back waistline. How embarrassing to have reacted like that, dammit. 

“Good morning,” he grumbles, padding over to the stove. “Let me get that. Jesus, did no one ever even teach you how to—” _Oh what the fuck_. 

As he rounds the island he can see below Dave’s waist….

And the director is standing in the kitchen entirely naked. 

Karkat freezes, his eyes zoning in on the bare ass before him.  
His mouth falls open. 

He’s.

Totally.

Naked. 

If Dave were even to turn fifteen degrees he’d get a complete view of his front, too. 

Even when he’d bunked with tons of men in small spaces, or shared locker rooms, none of them had presented comfort in nudity so flagrantly. 

He sucks in a breath, willing his eyes to turn away from the moderately tight (‘Moderately tight, what the fuck kind of thought is that?’) ass. 

He’s a professional, what is his goddamn malfunction. He’s not affected by this. It’s just early and he was taken by surprise. Karkat crosses his arms and presses his lips into a thin line, wrenching his gaze up to Dave’s head. He’ll just close his eyes if Dave turns to face him, he’s got some sense of decency unlike the director, apparently. 

“Would it really kill you to put on some fucking clothes, Strider?” Oh, phrasing. Too late now. 

—

Dave would have burned something, anything, a lot sooner if he'd known that it would make Vantas come into the kitchen shirtless, and carrying that sexy gun. 

His mouth nearly falls open. Vantas is totally cut. Dave really shouldn't be that surprised, considering the fact that his entire job kind of depends on his body being in really good shape. But still, _damn._ Muscles ripple down his arms and across his abdomen, his sweatpants are hanging loose on his hips and yep, he has an actual V cut there, just chillin'. 

To top it all off, his entire fucking left arm is covered in swirling floral tattoos, starting at the ball of his shoulder and spreading all the way down his arm. Wait, right arm. Dave's left.

Anyway. _Fuck._ Vantas' hotness level ratchets up so many levels that it straight up breaks the meter, like one of those carnival strongman games dudebros slam with a mallet so they can impress their dates. Unbelievable. 

He’s just an honest to god _hunk._

Dave stares like he's a man stranded out in the desert and Vantas is a mirage of water in the deceptively near distance. The sausages sizzle and pop and definitely keep burning, hotter and hotter. God they're so fucking hot. He would just love to get his mouth on one and work it between his lips… let the flavor explode across his tongue, smearing grease all over his mouth without a care…

Shit. Vantas' greeting knocks him out of his reverie, but Dave is glad that he does at least move to his periphery. That shit is distracting. 

Unfortunately, Dave had already thrown everything he has at the guy. And what he has is, strictly speaking, not a lot. In his defense, he’s really used to working all that hard when it comes to seduction. Before Vantas, a well timed smile or a quick, flirty comment was usually all he needed to get someone throwing themselves between his thousand thread count sheets.

Maybe this is hell. Or his greek tragedy. Cruel were the gods who sent him a bodyguard built like a fucking brick shithouse while making Dave the big bad wolf who can huff and puff but never blow that house.

Though. Vantas _had_ flirted with him. Sort of? There was definitely something in their conversation yesterday about Dave liking the idea of him sitting on his face that he’d totally forgotten about until just now. Maybe that's something. This isn’t about creating some meaningful relationship. It's just that this whole, 'sworn to protect' bodyguard thing would be any amount of bearable if they were at least boning.

He twists the knob to turn off the burner, willfully ignoring the smoke emanating from his now charred breakfast. 

"Maybe. I was just trying to stay ahead of the game, in case the mob snuck in last night and sprinkled all my clothes with anthrax. Can never be too safe, am I right? Besides," Dave says, forking a blackened sausage into his mouth and turning fully around to look at Vantas, "I need to enjoy this view with every inch of my body."

—

Karkat can feel Dave looking at him (he swears Dave licks his lower lip) and frowns, crossing his arms uncomfortably as he becomes very cognizant of his state of undress. He’s used to wearing long sleeves on duty. Dave also definitely notices his tattoo, which is a long story Karkat is not ready to get into with him. 

_Way to be a professional_ , he mentally admonishes himself. 

He can’t believe Strider is _naked_. 

The pan continues to smoke, and Karkat gapes as Dave turns toward him and sticks one of the charred pieces in his mouth. He grimaces, imagining that it really can’t taste all that great.

He sees a flash of Dave’s front and immediately averts his eyes up above, scoffing. Blood rushes to his face and he knows he shouldn’t be this impacted by seeing another man naked. It’s just early. Unsure of how exactly he should react to this, Karkat rolls his eyes. 

He really needs to get Dave a cell phone, maybe then he’ll stop acting like this. Acting like what, though? Dave obviously did this to piss him off, and Karkat has a feeling it will be like this until the mission is completely over. 

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Karkat had actually gotten a complete eyefull of Dave’s front. The image is almost burned into his brain. 

_No, no, not the intrusive thoughts, dammit,_ he thinks miserably. _Not again._

 

Back when he first started the therapy, he made a point to tell all to his therapist. It was here that he finally brought up the issues he’d held tight for years, dependent on the privacy and trust between them.

“Sometimes I have… intrusive thoughts,” he’d said. 

“Intrusive thoughts?” They’d questioned, urging him to continue. 

Karkat had fidgeted through his explanations. “Yeah, like…” Oh god, it was so embarrassing. 

They’d reassured his privacy, and he’d nodded. “I know, I know, it’s just… Fuck. It’s hard to say out loud.” 

“You don’t have to say anything. We can talk about something else.” 

“No, it’s okay,” Karkat had said through gritted teeth. Then he sighed, some of the tensity going out of him. “Sometimes I would have thoughts about my squadmates.” 

He didn’t miss how the therapist leaned forward with interest. “Thoughts?” 

“Yeah, like, uh. Sexual. Thoughts.” He pushed out. “I don’t wanna get into specifics,” he added quickly. 

“That’s fine,” the therapist said. “How were these upsetting to you?” 

Karkat had laughed. “They… weren’t? They were? I don’t know. It’s just. I don’t… I don’t like men.”

“Would it be so bad if you did?” 

Karkat remembered looking at the floor, so confused with how he felt them. “No… I guess. I guess it wouldn’t be. Sorry, can we talk about something else?” 

 

Dave has a pretty average sized dick. Karkat wonders what it would feel like to get hard in his hands.

_NO._

He’s not affected by Dave doing this. Setting his face, he forces himself to look back at Dave with an unimpressed expression. He’s not going to show that Dave’s antics are getting to him. Brazenly, he crosses the kitchen to the moka pot besides the stove next to Dave. He snatches it by the handle, forcing himself to act as if nothing is wrong. He’s probably doing a bad job. 

As expected, there’s a jar of ground coffee on the counter, too. He brings the pot over to it, thankful that it allows him to turn away from Dave as he fills the filter. 

“Well, when you’re ready to put on your big boy pants, we can go out and get you a phone.” He should stop poking at Dave about how juvenile he’s being, but damn does he make it difficult. He cringes as soon as he says it, it sounds like something someone’s _dad_ would say. 

—

Dave works hard not to gag. The food is… not good. But he can't back down now. He's in this shit deeper than the creamed corn that was part of yesterday's in-flight meal service. 

He can't _not_ notice how Vantas is definitely flustered. He blushes– _fucking cute_ –looks up and rolls his eyes, and when he looks back at Dave his face has been restored to its usual stern fatherly disapproval. 

He turns away to mess with the coffee pot, and Dave's gotta give props to the dude for stickin' it out. He would have honestly bet on Vantas going back to his room to put on a shirt, at least. This was way better though, because now Dave can keep ogling his shirtless bod.

Oh fuck yes, a phone. Dave slides his food out onto a plate and leans against the island with his legs crossed to eat it. He sees Vantas' face contort after the big boy comment and smiles. There's really nothing more entertaining right now than making Vantas uncomfortable, with the added bonus of furthering his own horny agenda, so he decides to dig in, just a little. 

"Oh yes, thank you daddy, a new phone?" Dave affects a high giggle. "I don't have any money to pay you back but I promise I can make it up to you…"

He drags his tongue slowly up the tines of his fork, raising his eyebrows. God, that's vile.

—

Karkat freezes. 

Maybe it’s the obnoxious high pitch mock Dave talks in. Maybe it’s the relentless sexual implication. Maybe it’s the way he says _that word_.

Something about it, some part of it, strikes a match within him. He can feel it, almost as physically as someone lighting a fuse.

He doesn’t move. He catches Dave in his line of sight as he obscenely licks his fork. His younger self might have given in and completely exploded. But not this Karkat. He’s too old and too experienced to give in to Dave’s immaturity and purposeful incitement. 

Even as his blood suddenly pumps hotter, he keeps his expression set and steady. 

Will it always be like this? Will Karkat keep digging in his heels only for Dave to push harder, begging a reaction from him? Will Karkat eventually explode? He can feel himself nearing that threshold, as much as it embarrasses him. 

Some part of him wants to go off at Dave. He wants to so badly. But that part of him doesn’t just manifest as snapping or yelling at him. It’s physical too, but not in a way that he can qualitate. Is it physical in that he wants to shove him up against a wall and punch him or wring his neck, or shove him up against a wall and… what? 

He sucks in a breath and moves to the sink so he can fill the pot with water. His movements are harsh and jerky, even robotic, as he clams up his anger. When he flips the sink handle on it’s a bit aggressive. 

How much more will Dave push before he loses it? And then what? They repeat that same cycle from before? He clenches his teeth together. Why can’t he just be _professional_ about this. 

He should go for a run. He’s long overdue for a workout. 

Instead of reacting in any way he wants to, Karkat snorts. “Yeah, you sure would like that, wouldn’t you,” he mutters, shutting off the water. 

He realizes, too long after the words are out of his mouth, that he’s already said that to Dave before. 

—

Vantas visibly stiffens at his words. Dave stares at his back, held perfectly ramrod straight, and his ass, lovingly outlined through his sweatpants, and thinks about how great would it be if he could just get _other_ parts of Vantas to stiffen up.

Actually, this might not a great line of thought to follow, considering his current state of undress. 

Dave puts rest of his food down. Hilariously, he's still going to be fucking hungry after all this. "Running out of pre recorded responses?" he cracks.

Dave watches him continue going through the process of making coffee. His movements are slow and careful, restraint etched into every line of his body. He's clearly uncomfortable, and Dave is weirdly gratified. 

But what is he holding back from? Flying of the handle? Pushing Dave to the floor and fucking him senseless? Okay, fine, he might be projecting a little with that one. And again, not the time for these thoughts. 

It was probably the first thing. After all you don't just become _distinguished_ in your field without an assfull of professional decorum. And after everything that had happened in the past day, Dave was sure anyone else would have exploded at him by now. It was impressive, really.

—

Karkat shuts his mouth into a fine line. He almost feels _caught_. 

Why did he have to end up with Dave Strider as a client, of all people? Why does it feel like he’s going to be mentally replaying Dave licking his fork all day now? 

Maybe he can find a nice little Internet cafe to begin his transfer application. God, handing him off would be a pain in the ass though. Not like it would get approved anyways. 

“You know if my primary objective weren’t to protect you, I’d kill you,” he grumbles, just loud enough for Dave to hear as he sets the pot on the stove and turns on the flame. “So maybe I’m just running out of patience before I actually do that.” 

He turns away and faces Dave, crossing his arms and keeping his gaze from drifting lower. Not doing so proves itself difficult immediately, but he manages. At least he hasn’t flown off the handle yelling at him, but that was pretty harsh. 

The words aren’t true in the slightest, but at this point he’s desperate for Dave to stop all this… whatever it is. The flirting? The innuendo? What is he even playing at? Does he do this all the time, is he being treated to Dave Strider’s usual disposition? Is this what millionaires get like with tons of money and no one, nothing, to keep them in check? He’s already shown Karkat he has some kind of normal, if maybe even _sad_ side, so Karkat doesn’t know why he’s keeping up the act, if it even is one. 

What Karkat would give to smack some kind _discipline_ into him, though. 

—

Damn. Dave laughs, and it's fuller and brighter than he's heard himself laugh in a long time. Maybe it's the sunlight streaming into the kitchen or maybe it's the half naked, tank of a guy growling not even six feet away from where he's standing, but he's suddenly in a great mood. Vantas is funny. Funny _and_ sexy. What a killer combo. Speaking of.

"If you're gonna kill me, can I decide how it goes down? Because I'm thinking, wait for it–asphyxiation. I've always wanted to get off to being choked out real good, the only question is logistics, like, will you be touching my dick, or should I? Or we could do each other." He wiggles his eyebrows. 

Oops. As his mind unwraps this choice fantasy, Dave can feel his dick stirring like it just got a whiff of the morning coffee. He tries not to picture Vantas up close and personal, teeth bared with one hand up against Dave's throat and the other wrapped around his cock... but of course then it's all he's picturing. 

Snap snap. Back to reality. Dave stares at Vantas' profile–that sharp jawline, the deeply furrowed, fuck you eyebrows, his sculpted pecs, and that fucking beautiful tat sleeve trailing down his arm to clear his mind of the fantasy Vantas (Vantasy?), before he realizes that it's doing the exact opposite of helping.

Trying to fight his body is only making more dense heat crop up between his legs, probably due to the fact that Vantas is _right fucking here_ in the eye of it all. The more Dave thinks about Vantas looking over and seeing him with his dick at full mast, the harder it gets. Damn. He might have an exhibitionist kink. Dave files that thought away to examine at a later time. 

So be it. He can chill here with a boner, no big. He crosses one leg over the other again, plants his elbows on the island behind him, and whistles an out of tune Yankee Doodle. Dave is pretty curious what Vantas will do, or if he'll even notice anything is up, considering he's been avoiding looking anywhere below Dave's face since crossed the kitchen, and when he's not—not looking at Dave's body, he's been staring the coffee pot down like it's plotting an assassination attempt.

—

The intrusive thoughts continue as Dave talks. Karkat wants to fold in on himself, or just leave, but he can’t now that he’s caught in this weird situation. It would feel like quitting. 

Dave’s words are graphic enough to fill his mind. The words ‘wring his neck’ really do take on new meaning as Karkat actually imagines himself pushing Dave against a wall and wrapping his fingers around his neck. How well would his hand fit, if he squeezed around entirely could he actually choke him, make Dave gasp for air? 

The goddamn _thoughts_. 

There’d been a saying, back in the Navy.

_It’s not gay if you’re underway._

After long stints away from home, surrounded by men, he could tell himself it was just that. 

But now he’s not, and he doesn’t know why he’s having them again. Though Dave is certainly making an effort to shove them into his brain. Dave is also probably going to be the only person he’ll be around for awhile, which makes Karkat wilt even more. 

It doesn’t matter. It’s still messed up, bizzare, of Dave to do this. How can he possibly think saying shit like this to someone he barely knows is okay? 

Karkat turns to look at Dave with narrowed slit eyes and a scowl.

“You know…” he starts to say in a growl and is swiftly cut off by what he sees. 

Field of view is a funny thing. No matter how disciplined one may be, he still can’t stop himself from taking in the full view of Dave and his obvious, unyielding erection. His eyes flicker down against his will, taking it in. His jaw drops open and the thoughts in the back of his head rise either further. 

_Fuck_.

He can feel blood rushing to his face and he makes himself scowl again, scrambling to play this off as anger. 

“Do you do this to everyone you meet? You realize normal people don’t act like this, you fucking repulsive degenerate,” Karkat spits before forcing himself to turn back to the stove. He can feel that his heart rate has rocketed up, his breathing fast. I’m just _mad_ , Karkat tells himself. 

Mad in what way, though? 

—

Dave holds his breath as Vantas turns around to face him. _This is your time to shine, lil' man,_ he thinks, and then cringes internally as the nickname causes a ghosted face from his past to flit, unwanted, across his mind. 

Fuck. Anyway. Vantas looks down and Dave sees his jaw drop and the honest to god blush that spreads across his face, before he quickly snaps at Dave and turns back to his beloved coffee pot.

Oh shit, Dave thinks. I just unlocked a new mode. 

Vantas is so flustered that Dave's mind is split three ways—there's his usual, persistent horniness, there’s the thought that Vantas' reaction is honestly kind of adorable, and then there's a little bit of guilt over possibly giving the guy heart palpitations. 

But the bigger third is definitely the sex thoughts. Dave thinks he must definitely be depraved because the venom in Vantas' voice just fans the flames, and turns him on further. 

Fuck yes. _Degrade me. Spank me, choke me, tie me up and fuck me 'till i can’t move_ —Holy shit, what the hell is going on? Is Dave really this horny for Vantas or is he just really fucking bored? It's probably a little of both. 

Damn. In a rare instance of self reflection, Dave wonders if maybe he went too far. Like, does this count as sexual-harassment in the workplace? But then again Vantas hasn’t explicitly told Dave to cut it out. It’s fact, it’s been nothing but mixed signals from Vantas since day one. Which was yesterday. At least Dave is consistent. 

In the end, he just laughs again. "No I don’t," he answers honestly. “It’s just that you’re straight up really fucking hot. It’s like, okay, I’m starving right, and I’m in line at the store with an armful of pitted prunes because I read in Men's Health that they’re good for me, but then there’s this sexy, delicious looking candy at the checkout that I have to stare at all the way up there.”

And then that third, little guilty side decides to throw Vantas a bone. “But I’m not a complete dick, so if you really want me to stop then tell me to right now and…” Ugh. He leans up off the counter, standing up straight and putting his hands up. “I will. I swear, say the word and I’ll be Dave ‘prude as a prune’ Strider. Great for your colon, but not in the fun way. Will bore you to death, or your money back, guaranteed.”

Of all that, Dave’s brain helpfully focuses in on the idea of Vantas ordering him around, and it’s very hot. His dick twitches, still hard and apparently hanging on for the ride.

From what he’s seen so far, Dave doesn’t really think he’ll take the offer. Or at least he hopes not, anyway. Lusting over Vantas in private will be so much more creepy. 

—

Karkat almost tosses his head back and laughs. Dave thinks he’s hot? He’s got to be fucking with him. 

What, like Karkat is supposed to believe all this was just Dave literally coming on to him? That’s ridiculous. Does Dave even swing that way? Karkat had never paid much attention to tabloids but if anything he’d always sworn Dave Strider had gorgeous women hanging off his arms as opposed to, well, anyone like Karkat. Men, that is to say. This all has to be some ruse of Strider’s. 

Karkat is here to protect him, he’s paid to do this. Why would would mega-famous millionaire director Dave Strider want to mess around with him, when he could have anyone else? Karkat knows he’s in shape, but again, it’s his job to be like this. 

It sure would explain all the innuendo, but still, the idea that he’d want Karkat is just so absurd he can’t even fathom it. 

But he looks out of the side of his eye at Strider, standing there with his arms up in surrender, and is surprised to find how genuine his expression actually looks. Karkat ignores that ever-present erection, still unfortunately in view. 

The director must just be messing with him. Karkat highly doubts he would actually stop, there isn’t a reasonable bone in that man’s body. He just says whatever he wants to with no thought to the consequences. 

Karkat snorts at the director’s wandering metaphors, but he fully turns his head to look at him so he can give his doubtful reply. “Yeah, okay. Please _stop_ , Mr. Strider. If I have to endure another waking minute of your expansive pornographic vocabulary I might end my own already prolonged lifespan tomorrow. So yes, please, for the love of god, stop.” 

Yeah, there’s no way Strider is actually going to stop. 

—

Dave didn’t really know what he was expecting. Of fucking course Vantas was going to tell him to stop. Though there’s something in his words that makes Dave think Vantas doesn’t believe he's serious. Like he’s rolling his eyes in an audible format. 

Well he’ll just have to see how serious Dave Strider can be. If Vantas wants serious, he’s gonna get it. Things are about to get more dry around here than the Sahara in July. 

Dave puts his arms down and clears his throat, once again wishing he had shades on. He can feel his dick flagging already. So long, faithful friend. "Okay," he says lightly. "No means no, which means yes sir—Mr. Vantas, I will stop. First order of business, if it pleases the marshal, I'm gonna go make myself presentable. Save me some coffee, though. I need something to hold me over until I can get a real drink."

Without waiting for a response, Dave about faces and walks back toward his bedroom, giving in to the one last impulse to cock his hips a bit more than necessary with each step, because despite all evidence to the contrary, he still selfishly enjoys the idea that Vantas’ _might_ be checking out his ass. 

Once Dave's alone in his room though, he lays down on the bed and reluctantly considers the small, unexpected pang in his chest. He really thought there had been… something there between him and Vantas. Or at least, not _nothing_ there. 

But what if all of the reactions Dave has been interpreting as embarrassment and flusteredness and barely withheld restraint, even his hatred of the whole daddy thing, were really just genuine irritation and anger all along? 

The thought curdles, sour in his stomach. And then the ghosted face from earlier is back, and clearer this time as the memory strikes him clear across the face.

_"Not bad today, lil' man."_

_Dave hates the way his face warms at the praise, even though he only lets himself grunt in response as he limps slowly toward the door. He get in a couple of decent hits today, which is more than he normally gets in during their fights. Bro was just that good. Although part of it definitely due to his two year advantage in the strength department._

_It's past dinner, and the roof is bathed in a soft, orange glow. Dave's stomach growls, and he considers sneaking into the kitchen for some leftovers. Today is movie Wednesday, which means he might be able to slip by the other kids while they're all watching Legally Blonde together or something. Good thing everyone knows that Dave and his big brother were too cool for that shit._

_“Hold up,” Bro says, as Dave’s fingers wrap around the door handle. “I think you've earned a reward, right?”_

_Dave's stomach drops as he turns around. "Is the food you took from me earlier?" he asks flatly, even as his heart rate starts amping up again. He already knows that it isn't._

_"No, it's better," Bro says. "I'm gonna do that thing you liked so much last time."_

_And then he's walking forward, forcing Dave to take tiny steps back until he's pressed up against the roof entry door, until he can see the orange of Bro's eyes through his shades, until Bro is close enough to shove a hand down Dave's shorts._

_"Don't, please," he whispers, but Bro ignores him, like always. Dave keeps his eyes on the sunset as they burn with tears he won’t let fall and his body betrays him in the worst way._

Dave squeezes his eyes shut, willing his mind blank before sitting up and pulling on his clothes, the inexplicable happiness he'd been feeling an hour ago feeling more and more like a far off dream. 

—

Karkat scoffs and nods his head at the stove, still in disbelief about what Dave was saying. 

But then Dave actually _leaves_. Karkat turns his head to watch curiously as the director actually exits from the kitchen. The way he walks doesn’t impugn Karkat’s doubt that he was just joking. Karkat wonders if Dave just decided he was tired of standing around naked like a dumbass, hoping Karkat would be flattered by gracing him with his multi-million dollar ass in pure form and leaving in disappointment when he clearly wasn’t. Honestly, he probably just needed an excuse to leave and put clothes on like a normal person would. 

Sure, Strider’s antics were entertaining but the way he was behaving towards Karkat didn’t make sense— he wasn’t coming on to him, was he? The spots of realness he’d seen from Dave clashed with overtly sexual talk. What was it then? Was Dave Strider just completely crazy in his riches or… what? 

Karkat doesn’t much want to mentally belabor it before he’s had coffee. When Dave doesn’t immediately return and the water isn’t close enough to boiling he heads back to his own room to change for the day. As soon as Dave is decent he’ll probably want out to buy some form of technology to distract himself with, like most humans nowadays. He returns to the kitchen as the coffee is starting to boil and pours two cups, a small act of goodwill for Dave. 

At the end of the day that’s what he was there for, right? 

—

Dave grins when he steps back into the kitchen and sees two cups of coffee on the counter. 

"So you _do_ love me," he says, before walking around to the stools on the other side of the island and taking a mug in both hands. He forces his eyes to stay on Vantas' face and not wander across his chest or arms. It's hard, but he manages. 

Dave sips the coffee loudly. "Fuck yes," he groans, throwing his head back. It's dark, and actually pretty good. Though they are in Italy, so it kind of makes sense. 

—

“Don’t get any ideas, there was enough for two,” Karkat mutters, even though Dave was right, he had intentionally done it. Not that Dave needs to know that, though. 

He’s pleased that Dave likes it, even if there isn’t exactly much of an art to making coffee in one of these pots. After a few moments he adds, “If you like that, there’s plenty more like it here.” 

Karkat is kind of looking forward to it, if Dave can prove to be a better travel companion than he had been so far. _If_ they can blend in well enough, too. Today will be the test of that, and Karkat sure as hell hopes that keeping the sunglasses off his face will be enough to keep people off their tail. 

“You ready to take a walk?” He assumes Dave is interested in getting something from the Apple store in the city, in which case they’ll stop and take out cash to make the purchase beforehand. He’s still a bit nervous about taking out the transfer money they’ve been supplied in the interim, but he’ll just have to wait and see. 

 

Wiring the money is actually easy. It’s early in the morning, and though it’s not too busy on the streets yet Karkat is still nervous. He’s on high alert, getting a feel for if the city will turn out hostile to Dave’s presence, in whatever way that manifests. 

They buy a phone entirely with cash. The data plan is set up under Dave’s fake name. 

Dave is actually tolerable through the process, likely eager to get his hands on the technology society is so dependent on nowadays. 

So far so good. 

Finally they’re standing on a small street, one that would either wind further into back alleyways or back to the main thoroughfare, and Karkat turns to Dave. 

“You got your phone, Mr. Arlington. Please don’t lose it.”

He has a feeling Dave is going to lose it. 

“Now that that’s over with, what do you want to do now? Hungry again? They eat a lot of fish here, apparently, if that’s your thing.” Or shopping, as Dave is still wearing one of the several plainclothes outfits he was given in the shuffle sending him to Europe. Karkat imagines the star won’t tolerate anything less than one hundred percent organic cotton for much longer, and the loaned clothes are anything but that. 

Locals and tourists alike pass by, paying the two of them no mind. Karkat slowly lets himself relax as the environment proves safe and ignorant to Dave Strider’s presence in the city. Taking and keeping off those sunglasses somehow made the difference, and Karkat still wasn’t sure whether or not to feel lucky knowing he was one of the few to see Strider without his signature shades. It was strange, how knowing that made every glance at the director’s eyes a nearly intimate act. Karkat, who had never struggled with eye contact before, found himself fighting the urge to glance away from Dave when they spoke. 

Though… there was a chance it wasn’t just because of the eyes. Karkat just couldn’t stop thinking about the bizarre chain of events from that morning starting with Dave Strider standing naked in the kitchen. He keeps trying and failing to fight off the mental image of the celebrity’s naked body. He’d thought that it would fade away after, but it hadn’t yet. The memory persisted, almost shamefully ingraining itself into his brain. It was like if he wasn’t careful, one look at Dave coupled with recollection of it all would result in an uncontrollable flush, or maybe something worse. Karkat didn’t desire to explain that to Dave or himself, and he just wrote it off as sustained shock after the experience. 

Anyone else would feel the same, he was sure.

—

Hearing Vantas speak Italian was pretty hot. Dave is briefly reminded of how he'd also spoken French in their very first encounter in the debriefing room. He wonders how many other romance languages Vantas has got at the tip of his tongue. 

Dave lets him do all the heavy lifting when it comes to purchasing and setting up the phone. Once it's in his hands though, he realizes quickly that having a phone is kind of useless if you can't fucking log into your own Instagram account. 

Also, being out in public with no shades is wigging Dave out even more than it did at the airport. He keeps reaching up and poking at the bridge of his nose as he tries to push nonexistent sunglasses up his face. Nobody seems to give them a second glance though. 

Bizarrely, he's already gotten pretty used to Vantas looking at him in the eyes now, an honor that's historically been reserved for a very small number of people. Actually, if he's being honest, right now that number is actually zero. 

God, he needs a drink. 

"If you want to know the truth, I'd die for a bellini right now. Like nail me to a cross and drag me to Golgotha, as long as at the end someone is gonna fill my mouth with some heavenly peach nectar; like really splash it all over my face and let it run down my body like I'm in a Neutrogena commercial, and then while I hang there all the sweet syrup will crystalize in the sun, and my followers will travel for miles to lick at my body until there's nothing left but some seriously exfoliated, dead Dave skin." 

—

Karkat looks at him as he rants on, and then looks away back at the street before him with a sigh. 

This is it, then. This is Dave Strider. He’s just gonna be like this the entire trip. 

Karkat’s just gonna have to accept this… whatever it is that Dave seems to do so often. Nontangential profuse language that ends up somewhere mildly disturbing. 

Oh. Right. At his mention of ‘dead Dave’, Karkat frowns. That word has come up far many times already for Karkat to just let it pass by. 

_Death wish_. The thought passes his through brain again and Karkat wonders if Dave actually has one, lurking deep under all those apparent layers he’s beginning to observe. It would make his job a great deal more difficult, maybe impossible. What is the irony in trying to keep someone alive against all incoming adversity who does not want to be alive? Karkat can’t make sense of the man, and now that he’s rested he should start to pay attention and put together the pieces of the sad celebrity he’s been bound to. 

He’s about to say it’s eleven AM, no one is drinking… but then he realizes that would be an erroneous statement entirely. Maybe better to just ease up on this for now, Dave isn’t in any immediate danger. 

“Yeah, whatever, sure,” he grumbles, still looking away from Dave and at the street. “We’ll get you a freakin’ bellini.” 

He nods in the direction of the main road and starts walking, expecting Dave to follow, as he’s been pretty good about doing so far. Maybe there is a lick of self-preservation in him. 

Dave catches up to him almost immediately as they turn the corner to a much busier path. He glances cautiously between the people surrounding them, still feeling out for whether anyone out here could be intending harm toward Dave. 

So far so good. 

 

“There should be a place on the corner of this next street if I’m remembering what we passed already,” he explains. Somewhere that looked like it might have some form of a bellini. Hopefully Strider wasn’t that picky. 

They pass a couple of clothing stores before passing- Wait. 

Karkat puts his hand out to stop Dave from walking further as his head swivels to look and he pauses mid-stride. 

Oh, no.

It’s a television in a storefront window. The news isn’t in English, but Karkat doesn’t need it to be to understand the message.

He feels as if the breath is ripped from his lungs, or like the floor is pulled out from under him. This can’t be happening. 

The surrounding street, full of people passing by and paying them no mind, starts to feel tighter, closing in on them. 

The world around him starts to blur out, the center of his gaze going hyper-focused as the adrenaline immediately hits his veins. He does it without thinking, reaching down to take ahold of Dave’s wrist and squeezing it, as if he was comforting Dave when he in fact was only comforting himself. 

On the television is a picture of Dave with a caption: 

**Director Dave Strider: rumored to be hiding in Europe.**

 

_Fuck_.


End file.
